ENGLISH    f 


E»UC. 
UiftARY 


S  0^  >> 


THE     HOME-COMING     OF     BIBBS 


PSYCH. 
1IBRARY 


Hs' 


THE 

-TURMOIL 


A    NOVEL 

BY 

BOOTH  TARKINGTON 

AUTHOR  OF 

"MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE" 

"THE  CONQUEST  OF  CANAAN" 

"PENROD"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 
C.     E.    CHAMBERS 


HARPER  fcf   BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK   AND    LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,    ItM.    l»15     BY   HARPER    A    BROTHERS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


433041 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  HOME-COMING  OF  BIBBS Frontispiece 

SHE  TREATED  HIM  AS  IF  HE  WERE  SOME  DELICIOUS 

OLD  JOKE Pacingp'     $Q 

"I'M  GOING  OUT  IN  His  CAR  WITH  HIM  TO-MORROW 

AFTERNOON"    

THE  POOR  WOMAN  BLUNDERED  ON,  WHOLLY  UNAWARE 

OF  WHAT  SHE  HAD  CONFESSED     ......  lo6 

"AND  You  COME  TO  TELL  ME  THAT?" I2° 

THEY  LOOKED  UP  IN  No  WELCOMING   MANNER  AT 

BIBBS'S  ENTRANCE T48 

"HE  SEEMS  TO  BE— RATHER  APPEALING  TO  THE— THE 

u  T^g 

SYMPATHIES 

THEY  HAD  FORMED  A  LITTLE  CODE  OF  LEAVE-TAKING  264 

"BUT  You  DON'T  KNOW  WHAT  WORK  Is,  YET"  .    .  312 


THE   TURMOIL 


THE   TURMOIL 


CHAPTER  I 

T^HERE  is  a  midland  city  in  the  heart  of  fair, 
1  open  country,  a  dirty  and  wonderful  city  nest 
ing  dingily  in  the  fog  of  its  own  smoke.  The 
stranger  must  feel  the  dirt  before  he  feels  the  wonder, 
for  the  dirt  will  be  upon  him  instantly.  It  will  be 
upon  him  and  within  him,  since  he  must  breathe  it, 
and  he  may  care  for  no  further  proof  that  wealth  is 
here  better  loved  than  cleanliness;  but  whether  he 
cares  or  not,  the  negligently  tended  streets  inces 
santly  press  home  the  point,  and  so  do  the  flecked 
and  grimy  citizens.  At  a  breeze  he  must  smother  in 
whirlpools  of  dust,  and  if  he  should  decline  at  any 
time  to  inhale  the  smoke  he  has  the  meager  alterna 
tive  of  suicide. 

The  smoke  is  like  the  bad  breath  of  a  giant  pant 
ing  for  more  and  more  riches.     He  gets  them  and 
pants  the  fiercer,  smelling  and  swelling  prodigiously, 
He  has  a  voice,  a  hoarse  voice,  hot  and  rapacious 
trained  to  one  tune:    "Wealth!   I  will  get  Wealth 
I  will  make  Wealth!     I  will  sell  Wealth  for  more 
Wealth!    My  house  shall  be  dirty,  my  garment  shall 
be  dirty,  and  I  will  foul  my  neighbor  so  that  he  can- 


THE  TURMOIL 


not  be  clean— but  I  will  get  Wealth !  There  shall  be 
no  clean  thing  about  me:  my  wife  shall  be  dirty  and 
my  child  shall  be  dirty,  but  I  will  get  Wealth!" 
And  yet  it  is  not  wealth  that  he  is  so  greedy  for: 
what  the  giant  really  wants  is  hasty  riches.  To  get 
these  he  squanders  wealth  upon  the  four  winds,  for 
wealth  is  in  the  smoke. 

Not  quite  so  long  ago  as  a  generation,  there  was 
no  panting  giant  here,  no  heaving,  grimy  city;  there 
was  but  a  pleasant  big  town  of  neighborly  people 
who  had  understanding  of  one  another,  being,  on 
the  whole,  much  of  the  same  type.  It  was  a  leisurely 
and  kindly  place — " homelike,"  it  was  called — and 
when  the  visitor  had  been  taken  through  the  State 
Asylum  for  the  Insane  and  made  to  appreciate  the 
view  of  the  cemetery  from  a  little  hill,  his  host's  duty 
as  Baedeker  was  done.  The  good  burghers  were 
given  to  jogging  comfortably  about  in  phaetons  or  in 
surreys  for  a  family  drive  on  Sunday.  No  one  was 
very  rich;  few  were  very  poor;  the  air  was  clean, 
and  there  was  time  to  live. 

But  there  was  a  spirit  abroad  in  the  land,  and  it 
was  strong  here  as  elsewhere — a  spirit  that  had 
moved  in  the  depths  of  the  American  soil  and  labored 
there,  sweating,  till  it  stirred  the  surface,  rove  the 
mountains,  and  emerged,  tangible  and  monstrous, 
the  god  of  all  good  American  hearts — Bigness.  And 
that  god  wrought  the  panting  giant. 
•*  In  the  souls  of  the  burghers  there  had  always  been 
the  profound  longing  for  size.  Year  by  year  the 
longing  increased  until  it  became  an  accumulated 
force:  We  must  Grow!  We  must  be  Big!  We  must 
be  Bigger!  Bigness  means  Money!  And  the  thing 


THE   TURMOIL 

began  to  happen;  their  longing  became  a  mighty 
Will.  We  must  be  Bigger!  Bigger!  Bigger!  Get 
people  here!  Coax  them  here !  Bribe  them!  Swindle 
them  into  coming,  if  you  must,  but  get  them!  Shout 
them  into  coming !  Deafen  them  into  coming!  Any 
kind  of  people;  all  kinds  of  people!  We  must  be 
Bigger!  Blow!  Boost!  Brag!  Kill  the  fault-finder! 
Scream  and  bellow  to  the  Most  High:  Bigness  is 
patriotism  and  honor!  Bigness  is  love  and  life  and 
happiness!  Bigness  is  Money!  We  want  Bigness! 

They  got  it.  From  all  the  states  the  people  came; 
thinly  at  first,  and  slowly,  but  faster  and  faster  in 
thicker  and  thicker  swarms  as  the  quick  years  went 
by.  White  people  came,  and  black  people  and  brown 
people  and  yellow  people;  the  negroes  came  from  the 
South  by  the  thousands  and  thousands,  multiplying 
by  other  thousands  and  thousands  faster  than  they 
could  die.  From  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth  the 
people  came,  the  broken  and  the  unbroken,  the  tame 
and  the  wild — Germans,  Irish,  Italians,  Hungarians, 
Scotch,  Welsh,  English,  French,  Swiss,  Swedes,  Nor 
wegians,  Greeks,  Poles,  Russian  Jews,  Dalmatians, 
Armenians,  Rumanians,  Bulgarians,  Servians,  Per 
sians,  Syrians,  Japanese,  Chinese,  Turks,  and  every 
hybrid  that  these  could  propagate.  And  if  there 
were  no  Eskimos  nor  Patagonians,  what  other  human 
strain  that  earth  might  furnish  failed  to  swim  and 
bubble  in  this  crucible? 

With  Bigness  came  the  new  machinery  and  the 
rush;  the  streets  began  to  roar  and  rattle,  the 
houses  to  tremble;  the  pavements  were  worn  tinder 
the  tread  of  hurrying  multitudes.  The  old,  leisurely, 
quizzical  look  of  the  faces  was  lost  in  something 

3 


THE    TURMOIL 

harder  and  warier;  and  a  cockney  type  began  to 
emerge  discernibly — a  cynical  young  mongrel,  bar 
baric  of  feature,  muscular  and  cunning;  dressed  in 
good  fabrics  fashioned  apparently  in  imitation  of 
the  sketches  drawn  by  newspaper  comedians.  The 
female  of  his  kind  came  with  him — a  pale  girl, 
shoddy  and  a  little  rouged;  and  they  communicated 
in  a  nasal  argot,  mainly  insolences  and  elisions.  Nay, 
the  common  speech  of  the  people  showed  change: 
in  place  of  the  old  midland  vernacular,  irregular  but 
clean,  and  not  unwholesomely  drawling,  a  jerky  dia 
lect  of  coined  metaphors  began  to  be  heard,  held 
together  by  gunnas  and  gottas  and  much  fostered  by 
the  public  journals. 

The  city  piled  itself  high  in  the  center,  tower  on 
tower  for  a  nucleus,  and  spread  itself  out  over  the 
plain,  mile  after  mile;  and  in  its  vitals,  like  benevo 
lent  bacilli  contending  with  malevolent  in  the  body 
of  a  man,  missions  and  refuges  offered  what  resistance 
they  might  to  the  saloons  and  all  the  hells  that 
cities  house  and  shelter.  Temptation  and  ruin  were 
ready  commodities  on  the  market  for  purchase  by 
the  venturesome;  highwaymen  walked  the  streets 
at  night  and  sometimes  killed;  snatching  thieves 
were  busy  everywhere  in  the  dusk;  while  house 
breakers  were  a  common  apprehension  and  frequent 
reality.  Life  itself  was  somewhat  safer  from  inten 
tional  destruction  than  it  was  in  medieval  Rome 
during  a  faction  war — though  the  Roman  murderer 
was  more  like  to  pay  for  his  deed — but  death  or 
mutilation  beneath  the  wheels  lay  in  ambush  at  every 
crossing. 

The  politicians  let  the  people  make  all  the  laws 

4 


THE   TURMOIL 

they  liked;  it  did  not  matter  much,  and  the  taxes 
went  up,  which  is  good  for  politicians.  Law-making 
was  a  pastime  of  the  people;  nothing  pleased  them 
more.  Singular  fermentation  of  their  humor,  they 
even  had  laws  forbidding  dangerous  speed.  More 
marvelous  still,  they  had  a  law  forbidding  smoke! 
They  forbade  chimneys  to  smoke  and  they  forbade 
cigarettes  to  smoke.  They  made  laws  for  all  things 
and  forgot  them  immediately;  though  sometimes 
they  would  remember  after  a  while,  and  hurry  to 
make  new  laws  that  the  old  laws  should  be  enforced— 
and  then  forget  both  new  and  old.  Wherever  en 
forcement  threatened  Money  or  Votes — or  wherever 
it  was  too  much  bother — it  became  a  joke.  Influence 
was  the  law. 

So  the  place  grew.    And  it  grew  strong. 

Straightway  when  he  came,  each  man  fell  to  the 
same  worship: 

Give  me  of  thyself,  O  Bigness: 
Power  to  get  more  power! 
Riches  to  get  more  riches! 
Give  me  of  thy  sweat  that  I  may  sweat  more! 
Give  me  Bigness  to  get  more  Bigness  to  myself, 
O  Bigness,  for  Thine  is  the  Power  and  the  Glory!    And 
there  is  no  end  but  Bigness,  ever  and  for  ever! 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  Sheridan  Building  was  the  biggest  sky- 
*  scraper;  the  Sheridan  Trust  Company  was  the 
biggest  of  its  kind,  and  Sheridan  himself  had  been 
the  biggest  builder  and  breaker  and  truster  and 
buster  under  the  smoke.  He  had  come  from  a  coun 
try  cross-roads,  at  the  beginning  of  the  growth,  and 
he  had  gone  up  and  down  in  the  booms  and  relapses 
of  that  period;  but  each  time  he  went  down  he  re 
bounded  a  little  higher,  until  finally,  after  a  year  of 
overwork  and  anxiety— the  latter  not  decreased  by 
a  chance,  remote  but  possible,  of  recuperation  from 
the  former  in  the  penitentiary— he  found  himself  on 
top,  with  solid  substance  under  his  feet;  and  there 
after  "played  it  safe."  But  his  hunger  to  get  was 
unabated,  for  it  was  in  the  very  bones  of  him  and 
grew  fiercer. 

He  was  the  city  incarnate^  He  loved  it,  calling 
it  God's  country,  as  he  called  'the  smoke  Prosperity, 
breathing  the  dingy  cloud  with  relish.  And  when 
soot  fell  upon  his  cuff  he  chuckled;  he  could  have 
kissed  it.  ^  "It's  good!  It's  good!"  he  said,  and 
smacked  his  lips  in  gusto.  "Good,  clean  soot;  it's 
our  Hfe-blood,  God  bless  it!"  The  smoke  was  one 
of  his  great  enthusiasms;  he  laughed  at  a  committee 
of  plaintive  housewives  who  called  to  beg  his  aid 
against  it.  "Smoke's  what  brings  your  husbands' 

6 


THE   TURMOIL 

money  home  on  Saturday  night,"  he  told  them, 
jovially.  "  Smoke  may  hurt  your  little  shrubberies 
in  the  front  yard  some,  but  it's  the  catarrhal  climate 
and  the  adenoids  that  starts  your  chuldern  coughing. 
Smoke  makes  the  climate  better.  Smoke  means 
good  health:  it  makes  the  people  wash  more. 
They  have  to  wash  so  much  they  wash  off  the  mi 
crobes.  You  go  home  and  ask  your  husbands  what 
smoke  puts  in  their  pockets  out  o'  the  pay-roll— 
and  you'll  come  around  next  time  to  get  me  to  turn 
out  more  smoke  instead  o'  chokin'  it  off!" 

It  was  Narcissism  in  him  to  love  the  city  so  well; 
he  saw  his  reflection  in  it;  and,  like  it,  he  was  grimy, 
big,  careless,  rich,  strong,  and  unquenchably  opti 
mistic.  From  the  deepest  of  his  inside  all  the  way 
out  he  believed  it  was  the  finest  city  in  the  world. 
:<  Finest"  was  his  word.  He  thought  of  it  as  his 
city  as  he  thought  of  his  family  as  his  family;  and 
just  as  he  profoundly  believed  his  city  to  be  the 
finest  city  in  the  world,  so  did  he  believe  his  family 
to  be — in  spite  of  his  son  Bibbs — the  finest  family 
in  the  world.  As^ajcnatter. of  f act :jjie  knew  nothing 
wQrth^knowinj*  about  either. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  was  a  musing  sort  of  boy,  poor  in 
health,  and  considered  the  failure — the  "odd  one"- 
of  the  family.  Born  during  that  most  dangerous  and 
anxious  of  the  early  years,  when  the  mother  fretted 
and  the  father  took  his  chance,  he  was  an  ill-nour 
ished  baby,  and  grew  meagerly,  only  lengthwise, 
through  a  feeble  childhood.  At  his  christening  he  was 
committed  for  life  to  "Bibbs"  mainly  through  lack 
of  imagination  on  his  mother's  part,  for  though  it 
was  her  maiden  name,  she  had  no  strong  affection 

7 


THE   TURMOIL 

for  it;   but  it  was  "her  turn"  to  name  the  baby, 
and,  as  she  explained  later,  she  "couldn't  think  of 
anything  else  she  liked  at  all!"     She  offered  this 
explanation  one  day  when  the  sickly  boy  was  nine 
and  after  a  long  fit  of  brooding  had  demanded  some 
reason  for  his  name's  being  Bibbs.     He  requested 
then  with  unwonted  vehemence  to  be  allowed  to 
exchange   names   with   his   older   brother,    Roscoe 
Conkling  Sheridan,  or  with  the  oldest,  James  Sheri 
dan,  Junior,  and  upon  being   refused  went   down 
into  the  cellar  and  remained  there  the  rest  of  that 
day.     And  the  cook,  descending  toward  dusk,  re 
ported  that  he  had  vanished;  but  a  search  revealed 
that  he  was  in  the  coal-pile,  completely  covered  and 
still  burrowing.    Removed  by  force  and  carried  up 
stairs,  he  maintained  a  cryptic  demeanor,  refusing 
to  utter  a  syllable  of  explanation,  even  under  the 
lash.    This  obvious  thing  was  wholly  a  mystery  to 
both  parents;  the  mother  was  nonplussed,  failed  to 
trace  and  connect;   and  the  father  regarded  his  son 
as  a  stubborn  and  mysterious  fool,  an  impression 
not  effaced  as  the  years  went  by. 

At  twenty-two,  Bibbs  was  physically  no  more  than 
the  outer  scaffolding  of  a  man,  waiting  for  the  build 
ing  to  begin  inside— a  long-shanked,  long-faced,  rick 
ety  youth,  sallow  and  hollow  and  haggard,  dark- 
haired  and  dark-eyed,  with  a  peculiar  expression  of 
countenance;  indeed,  at  first  sight  of  Bibbs  Sheridan 
a  stranger  might  well  be  solicitous,  for  he  seemed 
upon  the  point  of  tears.  But  to  a  slightly  longer 
gaze,  not  grief,  but  mirth,  was  revealed  as  his  emotion ; 
while  a  more  searching  scrutiny  was  proportionately 
more  puzzling — he  seemed  about  to  burst  out  crying 

8 


THE   TURMOIL 

or  to  burst  out  laughing,  one  or  the  other,  inevitably, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  decide  which.  And  Bibbs 
never,  on  any  occasion  of  his  life,  either  laughed 
aloud  or  wept. 

He  was  a  "disappointment"  to  his  father.  At 
least  that  was  the  parent's  word— a  confirmed  and 
established  word  after  his  first  attempt  to  make  a 
"business  man"  of  the  boy.  He  sent  Bibbs  to 
"begin  at  the  bottom  and  learn  from  the  ground  up" 
in  the  machine-shop  of  the  Sheridan  Automatic  Pump 
Works,  and  at  the  end  of  six  months  the  family 
physician  sent  Bibbs  to  begin  at  the  bottom  and 
learn  from  the  ground  up  in  a  sanitarium. 

"You  needn't  worry,  mamma,"  Sheridan  told  his 
wife.  * '  There's  nothin'  the  matter  with  Bibbs  except 
he  hates  work  so  much  it  makes  him  sick.  I  put 
him  in  the  machine-shop,  and  I  guess  I  know  what 
I'm  doin'  about  as  well  as  the  next  man.  Ole 
Doc  Gurney  always  was  one  o'  them  nutty  alarm 
ists.  Does  he  think  I'd  do  anything  'd  be 
bad  for  my  own  flesh  and  blood  ?  He  makes  me 

tired!" 

Anything  except  perfectly  definite  health  or  per 
fectly  definite  disease  was  incomprehensible  to  Sheri 
dan.  He  had  a  genuine  conviction  that  lack  of  phys 
ical  persistence  in  any  task  involving  money  must 
be  due  to  some  subtle  weakness  of  character  itself, 
to  some  profound  shiftlessness  or  slyness.  He  under 
stood  typhoid  fever,  pneumonia,  and  appendicitis- 
one  had  them,  and  either  died  or  got  over  them  and 
went  back  to  work— but  when  the  word  " nervous'1 
appeared  in  a  diagnosis  he  became  honestly  suspi 
cious:  he  had  the  feeling  that  there  was  something 

9 


THE  TURMOIL 

contemptible  about  it,  that  there  was  a  nigger  in  the 
wood-pile  somewhere. 

"Look  at  me/*  he  said.  "Look  at  what  I  did  at 
his  age!  Why,  when  I  was  twenty  years  old,  wasn't 
I  up  every  morning  at  four  o'clock  choppin'  wood — 
yes!  and  out  in  the  dark  and  the  snow — to  build  a 
fire  in  a  country  grocery  store?  And  here  Bibbs 
has  to  go  and  have  a  doctor  because  he  can't —  Pho ! 
it  makes  me  tired!  If  he'd  gone  at  it  like  a  man  he 
wouldn't  be  sick." 

He  paced  the  bedroom — the  usual  setting  for  such 
parental  discussions — in  his  nightgown,  shaking  his 
big,  grizzled  head  and  gesticulating  to  his  bedded 
spouse.  "My  Lord!"  he  said.  "If  a  little,  teeny 
bit  o'  work  like  this  is  too  much  for  him,  why,  he 
ain't  fit  for  anything!  It's  nine-tenths  imagination, 
and  the  rest  of  it — well,  I  won't  say  it's  deliberate, 
but  I  would  like  to  know  just  how  much  of  it's  put 
on!" 

"Bibbs  didn't  want  the  doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Sheri 
dan.  "It  was  when  he  was  here  to  dinner  that 
night,  and  noticed  how  he  couldn't  eat  anything. 
Honey,  you  better  come  to  bed." 

"Eat!"  he  snorted.  "Eat!  It's  work  that  makes 
men  eat!  And  it's  imagination  that  keeps  people 
from  eatin'.  Busy  men  don't  get  time  for  that  kind 
of  imagination;  and  there's  another  thing  you'll 
notice  about  good  health,  if  you'll  take  the  trouble 
to  look  around  you,  Mrs.  Sheridan:  busy  men 
haven't  got  time  to  be  sick  and  they  don't  get  sick. 
You  just  think  it  over  and  you'll  find  that  ninety- 
nine  per  cent,  of  the  sick  people  you  know  are  either 
women  or  loafers.  Yes,  ma'am!" 

10 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Honey,"  she  said  again,  drowsily,  "you  better 
come  to  bed." 

"Look  at  the  other  boys,"  her  husband  bade  her. 
"Look  at  Jim  and  Roscoe.  Look  at  how  they  workJ 
There  isn't  a  shiftless  bone  in  their  bodies.  Work 
never  made  Jim  or  Roscoe  sick.  Jim  takes  half  the 
load  off  my  shoulders  already.  Right  now  there  isn't 
a  harder-workin',  brighter  business  man  in  this  city 
than  Jim.  I've  pushed  him,  but  he  give  me  some 
thing  to  push  against.  You  can't  push  'nervous  dys 
pepsia'  !  And  look  at  Roscoe;  just  look  at  what  that 
boy's  done  for  himself,  and  barely  twenty-seven  years 
old — married,  got  a  fine  wife,  and  ready  to  build  for 
himself  with  his  own  money,  when  I  put  up  the  New 
House  for  you  and  Edie." 

"Papa,  you'll  catch  cold  in  your  bare  feet,"  she 
murmured.  "You  better  come  to  bed." 

"And  I'm  just  as  proud  of  Edie,  for  a  girl,"  he 
continued,  emphatically,  "as  I  am  of  Jim  and  Roscoe 
for  boys.  She'll  make  some  man  a  mighty  good 
wife  when  the  time  comes.  She's  the  prettiest  and 
talentedest  girl  in  the  United  States!  Look  at  that 
poem  she  wrote  when  she  was  in  school  and  took 
the  prize  with;  it's  the  best  poem  I  ever  read  in  my 
life,  and  she'd  never  even  tried  to  write  one  before. 
It's  the  finest  thing  I  ever  read,  and  R.  T.  Bloss  said 
so,  too;  and  I  guess  he's  a  good  enough  literary  judge 
for  me — turns  out  more  advertisin'  liter'cher  than 
any  man  in  this  city.  I  tell  you  she's  smart!  Look 
at  the  way  she  worked  me  to  get  me  to  promise  the 
New  House — and  I  guess  you  had  your  finger  in 
that,  too,  mamma!  This  old  shack's  good  enough 
for  me,  but  you  and  little  Edie  '11  have  to  have  your 

ii 


THE   TURMOIL 

way.  I'll  get  behind  her  and  push  her  same  as  I 
will  Jim  and  Roscoe.  I  tell  you  I'm  mighty  proud 
o'  them  three  chuldern!  But  Bibbs — "  He  paused, 
shaking  his  head.  "  Honest,  mamma,  when  I  talk 
to  men  that  got  all  their  boys  doin'  well  and  worth 
their  salt,  why,  I  have  to  keep  my  mind  on  Jim  and 
Roscoe  and  forget  about  Bibbs." 

Mrs.  Sheridan  tossed  her  head  fretfully  upon  the 
pillow.  "You  did  the  best  you  could,  papa,"  she 
said,  impatiently,  "so  come  to  bed  and  quit  re- 
proachin'  yourself  for  it." 

He  glared  at  her  indignantly.  "Reproachin'  my 
self  !"  he  snorted.  "I  ain't  doin'  anything  of  the 
kind!  What  in  the  name  o'  goodness  would  I  want 
to  reproach  myself  for?  And  it  wasn't  the  'best  I 
could,'  either.  It  was  the  best  anybody  could!  I 
was  givin'  him  a  chance  to  show  what  was  in  him 
and  make  a  man  of  himself — and  here  he  goes  and 
gets  'nervous  dyspepsia'  on  me!" 

He  went  to  the  old-fashioned  gas-fixture,  turned 
out  the  light,  and  muttered  his  way  morosely  into 
bed. 

"What?"  said  his  wife,  crossly,  bothered  by  a 
subsequent  mumbling. 

"More  like  hook-worm,  I  said,"  he  explained, 
speaking  louder.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
him!" 


CHAPTER  III 

BEGINNING  at  the  beginning  and  learning  from 
the  ground  up  was  a  long  course  for  Bibbs  at  the 
sanitarium,  with  milk  and  "zwieback'*  as  the  basis 
of  instruction ;  and  the  months  were  many  and  tire 
some  before  he  was  considered  near  enough  gradua 
tion  to  go  for  a  walk  leaning  on  a  nurse  and  a  cane. 
These  and  subsequent  months  saw  the  planning,  the 
building,  and  the  completion  of  the  New  House;  and 
it  was  to  that  abode  of  Bigness  that  Bibbs  was 
brought  when  the  cane,  without  the  nurse,  was  found 
sufficient  to  his  support. 

Edith  met  him  at  the  station.  "  Well,  well,  Bibbs!" 
she  said,  as  he  came  slowly  through  the  gates,  the 
last  of  all  the  travelers  from  that  train.  She  gave 
his  hand  a  brisk  little  shake,  averting  her  eyes 
after  a  quick  glance  at  him,  and  turning  at  once 
toward  the  passage  to  the  street.  "Do  you  think 
they  ought  to  Ve  let  you  come?  You  certainly 
don't  look  well!" 

"But  I  certainly  do  look  better,"  he  returned,  in  a 
voice  as  slow  as  his  gait;  a  drawl  that  was  a  neces 
sity,  for  when  Bibbs  tried  to  speak  quickly  he  stam 
mered.  "Up  to  about  a  month  ago  it  took  two 
people  to  see  me.  They  had  to  get  me  in  a  line 
between  'em!" 

Edith  did  not  turn  her  eyes  directly  toward  him 


THE*TURMOIL 

again,  after  her  first  quick  glance;  and  her  expres 
sion,  in  spite  of  her,  showed  a  faint,  troubled  dis 
taste,  the  look  of  a  healthy  person  pressed  by  some 
obligation  of  business  to  visit  a  "bad"  ward  in  a 
hospital.  She  was  nineteen,  fair  and  slim,  with  small, 
unequal  features,  but  a  prettiness  of  color  and  a 
brilliancy  of  eyes  that  created  a  total  impression  close 
upon  beauty.  Her  movements  were  eager  and  rest 
less:  there  was  something  about  her,  as  kind  old 
ladies  say,  that  was  very  sweet ;  and  there  was  some 
thing  that  was  hurried  and  breathless.  This  was 
new  to  Bibbs;  it  was  a  perceptible  change  since  he 
had  last  seen  her,  and  he  bent  upon  her  a  steady, 
whimsical  scrutiny  as  they  stood  at  the  curb,  wait 
ing  for  an  automobile  across  the  street  to  disengage 
itself  from  the  traffic. 

"That's  the  new  car,"  she  said.  "Everything's 
new.  We've  got  four  now,  besides  Jim's.  Roscoe's 
got  two." 

"Edith,  you  look — "  he  began,  and  paused. 

"Oh,  we're  all  well,"  she  said,  briskly;  and  then, 
as  if  something  in  his  tone  had  caught  her  as  sig 
nificant,  "Well,  how  do  I  look,  Bibbs?" 

"You  look — "  He  paused  again,  taking  in  Ihe 
full  length  of  her — her  trim  brown  shoes,  her  scant, 
tapering,  rough  skirt,  and  her  coat  of  brown  and 
green,  her  long  green  tippet  and  her  mad  little  rough 
hat  in  the  mad  mode — all  suited  to  the  October  day. 

"How  do  I  look?"  she  insisted. 

"You  look,"  he  answered,  as  his  examination 
ended  upon  an  incrusted  watch  of  platinum  and 
enamel  at  her  wrist,  "you  look — expensive!"  That 
was  a  substitute  for  what  he  had  intended  to  say, 


THE   TURMOIL 

for  her  constraint  and  preoccupation,  manifested  par 
ticularly  in  her  keeping  her  direct  glance  away  from 
him,  did  not  seem  to  grant  the  privilege  of  impulsive 
intimacies. 

"I  expect  I  am!"  she  laughed,  and  sidelong  caught 
the  direction  of  his  glance.  "Of  course  I  oughtn't 
to  wear  it  in  the  daytime — it's  an  evening  thing, 
for  the  theater — but  my  day  wrist-watch  is  out  of 
gear.  Bobby  Lamhorn  broke  it  yesterday;  he's  a 
regular  rowdy  sometimes.  Do  you  want  Claus  to 
help  you  in?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Bibbs.  "I'm  alive."  And  after  a 
fit  of  panting  subsequent  to  his  climbing  into  the 
car  unaided,  he  added,  "Of  course,  I  have  to  tell 
people!" 

"We  only  got  your  telegram  this  morning," 
she  said,  as  they  began  to  move  rapidly  through 
the  "wholesale  district"  neighboring  the  station. 
* '  Mother  said  she'd  hardly  expected  you  this  month." 

"They  seemed  to  be  through  with  me  up  there  in 
the  country,"  he  explained,  gently.  "At  least  they 
said  they  were,  and  they  wouldn't  keep  me  any 
longer,  because  so  many  really  sick  people  wanted 
to  get  in.  They  told  me  to  go  home — and  I  didn't 
have  any  place  else  to  go.  It  11  be  all  right,  Edith; 
I'll  sit  in  the  woodshed  until  after  dark  every  day." 

"Pshaw!"  She  laughed  nervously.  "Of  course 
we're  all  of  us  glad  to  have  you  back." 

"Yes?"  he  said.    "Father?" 

"Of  course!  Didn't  he  write  and  tell  you  to  come 
home?"  She  did  not  turn  to  him  with  the  question. 
All  the  while  she  rode  with  her  face  directly  forward. 

"No,"  he  said;  "father  hasn't  written." 

2  15 


THE   TURMOIL 

She  flushed  a  little.  "I  expect  7  ought  to  Ve  writ 
ten  sometime,  or  one  of  the  boys — " 

1  'Oh  no;  that  was  all  right." 

"You  can't  think  how  busy  we've  all  been  this 
year,  Bibbs.  I  often  planned  to  write — and  then, 
just  as  I  was  going  to,  something  would  turn  up. 
And  I'm  sure  it's  been  just  the  same  way  with  Jim 
and  Roscoe.  Of  course  we  knew  mamma  was  writing 
often,  and — " 

"Of  course!"  he  said,  readily.  "There's  a  chunk 
of  coal  fallen  on  your  glove,  Edith.  Better  flick 
it  off  before  it  smears.  My  word!  I'd  almost  for 
gotten  how  sooty  it  is  here." 

"We've  been  having  very  bright  weather  this 
month — for  us."  She  blew  the  flake  of  soot  into 
the  air,  seeming  relieved. 

He  looked  up  at  the  dingy  sky,  wherein  hung  the 
disconsolate  sun  like  a  cold  tin  pan  nailed  up  in  a 
smoke-house  by  some  lunatic,  for  a  decoration. 
"Yes,"  said  Bibbs.  "It's  very  gay."  A  few  mo 
ments  later,  as  they  passed  a  corner,  "Aren't  we 
going  home?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  yes!  Did  you  want  to  go  somewhere  else 
first?" 

"No.  Your  new  driver's  taking  us  out  of  the 
way,  isn't  he?" 

"No.    This  is  right.    We're  going  straight  home." 

"But  we've  passed  the  corner.  We  always 
turned—" 

"Good  gracious!"  she  cried.  "Didn't  you  know 
we'd  moved?  Didn't  you  know  we  were  in  the 
New  House?" 

"Why,  no!"  said  Bibbs.    "Are  you?" 

16 


THE   TURMOIL 

"We've  been  there  a  month!  Good  gracious! 
Didn't  you  know — "  She  broke  off,  flushing  again, 
and  then  went  on  hastily:  "Of  course,  mamma's 
never  been  so  busy  in  her  life;  we  all  haven't  had 
time  to  do  anything  but  keep  on  the  hop.  Mamma 
couldn't  even  come  to  the  station  to-day.  Papa's 
got  some  of  his  business  friends  and  people  from 
around  the  old-hou.se  neighborhood  coming  to-night 
for  a  big  dinner  and  'house-warming' — dreadful  kind 
of  people — but  mamma's  got  it  all  on  her  hands. 
She's  never  sat  down  a  minute;  and  if  she  did,  papa 
would  have  her  up  again  before— 

"Of  course,"  said  Bibbs.  "Do  you  like  the  new 
place,  Edith?" 

"I  don't  like  some  of  the  things  father  would  have 
in  it,  but  it's  the  finest  house  in  town,  and  that 
ought  to  be  good  enough  for  me!  Papa  bought  one 
thing  I  like — a  view  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  in  oil 
that's  perfectly  beautiful;  it's  the  first  thing  you 
see  as  you  come  in  the  front  hall,  and  it's  eleven  feet 
long.  But  he  would  have  that  old  fruit  picture  we 
had  in  the  Murphy  Street  house  hung  up  in  the 
new  dining-room.  You  remember  it — a  table  and 
a  watermelon  sliced  open,  and  a  lot  of  rouged- 
looking  apples  and  some  shiny  lemons,  with  two 
dead  prairie-chickens  on  a  chair?  He  bought  it  at 
a  furniture-store  years  and  years  ago,  and  he  claims 
it's  a  finer  picture  than  any  they  saw  in  the  muse 
ums,  that  time  he  took  mamma  to  Europe.  But  it's 
horribly  out  of  date  to  have  those  things  in  dining- 
rooms,  and  I  caught  Bobby  Lamhorn  giggling  at 
it;  and  Sibyl  made  fun  of  it,  too,  with  Bobby,  and 
then  told  papa  she  agreed  with  him  about  its  being 

17 


THE   TURMOIL 

such  a  fine  thing,  and  said  he  did  just  right  to  insist 
on  having  it  where  he  wanted  it.  She  makes  me 
tired!  Sibyl!" 

Edith's  first  constraint  with  her  brother,  amount 
ing  almost  to  awkwardness,  vanished  with  this  theme, 
though  she  still  kept  her  full  gaze  always  to  the 
front,  even  in  the  extreme  ardor  of  her  denunciation 
of  her  sister-in-law. 

"Sibyl!"  she  repeated,  with  such  heat  and  vigor 
that  the  name  seemed  to  strike  fire  on  her  lips.  "I'd 
like  to  know  why  Roscoe  couldn't  have  married 
somebody  from  here  that  would  have  done  us  some 
good!  He  could  have  got  in  with  Bobby  Lamhorn 
years  ago  just  as  well  as  now,  and  Bobby  'd  have 
introduced  him  to  the  nicest  girls  in  town,  but  in 
stead  of  that  he  had  to  go  and  pick  up  this  Sibyl 
Rink!  I  met  some  awfully  nice  people  from  her 
town  when  mamma  and  I  were  at  Atlantic  City,  last 
spring,  and  not  one  had  ever  even  heard  of  the 
Rinks!  Not  even  heard  of  'em!" 

"I  thought  you  were  great  friends  with  Sibyl," 
Bibbs  said. 

"Up  to  the  time  I  found  her  out!"  the  sister  re 
turned,  with  continuing  vehemence.  "I've  found  out 
some  things  about  Mrs.  Roscoe  Sheridan  lately — " 

"It's  only  lately?" 

' '  Well — ' '  Edith  hesitated,  her  lips  setting  primly. 
"Of  course,  I  always  did  see  that  she  never  cared 
the  snap  of  her  little  finger  about  Roscoe!" 

"It  seems,"  said  Bibbs,  in  laconic  protest,  "that 
she  married  him." 

The  sister  emitted  a  shrill  cry,  to  be  interpreted 
as  contemptuous  laughter,  and,  in  her  emotion, 

18 


THE   TURMOIL 

spoke  too  impulsively:   "Why,  she'd  have  married 
your 

"No,  no,"  he  said;    "she  couldn't  be  that  bad!" 

"I  didn't  mean — "  she  began,  distressed.  "I  only 
meant —  I  didn't  mean — " 

"Never  mind,  Edith,"  he  consoled  her.  "You 
see,  she  couldn't  have  married  me,  because  I  didn't 
know  her;  and  besides,  if  she's  as  mercenary  as  all 
that  she'd  have  been  too  clever.  The  head  doctor 
even  had  to  lend  me  the  money  for  my  ticket  home." 

"I  didn't  mean  anything  unpleasant  about  you" 
Edith  babbled.  ' '  I  only  meant  I  thought  she  was  the 
kind  of  girl  who  was  so  simply  crazy  to  marry  some 
body  she'd  have  married  anybody  that  asked  her." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Bibbs;  "it's  all  straight."  And, 
perceiving  that  his  sister's  expression  was  that  of  a 
person  whose  adroitness  has  set  matters  perfectly 
to  rights,  he  chuckled  silently. 

"Roscoe's  perfectly  lovely  to  her,"  she  continued, 
a  moment  later.  "Too  lovely!  If  he'd  wake  up  a 
little  and  lay  down  the  law,  some  day,  like  a  man, 
I  guess  she'd  respect  him  more  and  learn  to  behave 
herself!" 

"'Behave'?" 

"Oh,  well,  I  mean  she's  so  insincere,"  said  Edith, 
characteristically  evasive  when  it  came  to  stating 
the  very  point  to  which  she  had  led,  and  in  this  not 
unique  of  her  sex. 

Bibbs  contented  himself  with  a  non-committal  ges 
ture.  "Business  is  crawling  up  the  old  streets,"  he 
said,  his  long,  tremulous  hand  indicating  a  vasty 
structure  in  course  of  erection.  "The  boarding- 
houses  come  first  and  then  the — " 

19 


THE   TURMOIL 

' '  That  isn't  for  shops, "  she  informed  him.  ' ' That's 
a  new  investment  of  papa's — the  'Sheridan  Apart^ 
rnents.'" 

"Well,  well,"  he  murmured.  "I  supposed  'Sheri 
dan'  was  almost  well  enough  known  here  already." 

"Oh,  we're  well  enough  known  about!"  she  said, 
impatiently.  "I  guess  there  isn't  a  man,  woman, 
child,  or  nigger  baby  in  town  that  doesn't  know  who 
we  are.  But  we  aren't  in  with  the  right  people." 

"No!"  he  exclaimed.    "Who's  all  that?" 

"Who's  all  what?" 

"The  'right  people." 

"You  know  what  I  mean:  the  best  people,  the 
old  families — the  people  that  have  the  real  social 
position  in  this  town  and  that  know  they've  got  it." 

Bibbs  indulged  in  his  silent  chuckle  again;  he 
seemed  greatly  amused.  "I  thought  that  the  people 
who  actually  had  the  real  what-you-may-call-it  didn't 
know  it,"  he  said.  "I've  always  understood  that 
it  was  very  unsatisfactory,  because  if  you  thought 
about  it  you  didn't  have  it,  and  if  you  had  it  you 
didn't  know  it." 

"That's  just  bosh,"  she  retorted.  "They  know 
it  in  this  town,  all  right !  I  found  out  a  lot  of  things, 
long  before  we  began  to  think  of  building  out  in 
this  direction.  The  right  people  in  this  town  aren't 
always  the  society-column  ones,  and  they  mix  around 
with  outsiders,  and  they  don't  all  belong  to  any  one 
club — they've  taken  in  all  sorts  into  all  their  clubs — 
but  they're  a  clan,  just  the  same;  and  they  have  the 
clan  feeling  and  they're  just  as  much  We,  Us  and 
Company  as  any  crowd  you  read  about  anywhere 
in  the  world.  Most  of  'em  were  here  long  before 

20 


THE   TURMOIL 

papa  came,  and  the  grandfathers  of  the  girls  of  my 
age  knew  each  other,  and — " 

"I  see,"  Bibbs  interrupted,  gravely.  "Their  an 
cestors  fled  together  from  many  a  stricken  field,  and 
Crusaders'  blood  flows  in  their  veins.  I  always  un 
derstood  the  first  house  was  built  by  an  old  party 
of  the  name  of  Ver trees  who  couldn't  get  along 
with  Dan'l  Boone,  and  hurried  away  to  these  parts 
because  Dan'l  wanted  him  to  give  back  a  gun  he'd 
lent  him." 

Edith  gave  a  little  ejaculation  of  alarm.  "You 
mustn't  repeat  that  story,  Bibbs,  even  if  it's  true. 
The  Vertreeses  are  the  best  family,  and  of  course 
the  very  oldest  here;  they  were  an  old  family  even 
before  Mary  Vertrees's  great-great-grandfather  came 
west  and  founded  this  settlement.  He  came  from 
Lynn,  Massachusetts,  and  they  have  relatives  there 
yet — some  of  the  best  people  in  Lynn!" 

"No!"  exclaimed  Bibbs,  incredulously. 

"And  there  are  other  old  families  like  the  Ver 
treeses,"  she  went  on,  not  heeding  him;  "the  Lam- 
horns  and  the  Kittersbys  and  the  J.  Palmers  ton 
Smiths—" 

"Strange  names  to  me,"  he  interrupted.  "Poor 
things!  None  of  them  have  my  acquaintance." 

"No,  that's  just  it!"  she  cried.  "And  papa  had 
never  even  heard  the  name  of  Vertrees!  Mrs.  Ver- 
trees  went  with  some  anti-smoke  committee  to  see 
him,  and  he  told  her  that  smoke  was  what  made 
her  husband  bring  home  his  wages  from  the  pay-roll 
on  Saturday  night!  He  told  us  about  it,  and  I 
thought  I  just  couldn't  live  through  the  night,  I 
was  so  ashamed!  Mr.  Vertrees  has  always  lived 

21 


THE   TURMOIL 

on  his  income,  and  papa  didn't  know  him,  of  course. 
They're  the  stiff est,  most  elegant  people  in  the  whole 
town.  And  to  crown  it  all,  papa  went  and  bought 
the  next  lot  to  the  old  Vertrees  country  mansion — 
it's  in  the  very  heart  of  the  best  new  residence 
district  now,  and  that's  where  the  New  House  is, 
right  next  door  to  them — and  I  must  say  it  makes 
their  place  look  rather  shabby!  I  met  Mary  Ver 
trees  when  I  joined  the  Mission  Service  Helpers, 
but  she  never  did  any  more  than  just  barely  bow  to 
me,  and  since  papa's  break  I  doubt  if  she'll  do  that ! 
They  haven't  called." 

"And  you  think  if  I  spread  this  gossip  about 
Vertrees  the  First  stealing  Dan'l  Boone's  gun,  the 
chances  that  they  will  call — " 

"Papa  knows  what  a  break  he  made  with  Mrs. 
Vertrees.  I  made  him  understand  that,"  said  Edith, 
demurely,  "and  he's  promised  to  try  and  meet  Mr. 
Vertrees  and  be  nice  to  him.  It's  just  this  way:  if 
we  don't  know  them,  it's  practically  no  use  in  our 
having  built  the  New  House;  and  if  we  do  know 
them  and  they're  decent  to  us,  we're  right  with  the 
right  people.  They  can  do  the  whole  thing  for  us. 
Bobby  Lamhorn  told  Sibyl  he  was  going  to  bring 
his  mother  to  call  on  her  and  on  mamma,  but  it  was 
weeks  ago,  and  I  notice  he  hasn't  done  it;  and  if 
Mrs.  Vertrees  decides  not  to  know  us,  I'm  darn 
sure  Mrs.  Lamhorn  '11  never  come.  That's  one 
thing  Sibyl  didn't  manage !  She  said  Bobby  offered 
to  bring  his  mother — " 

"You  say  he  is  a  friend  of  Roscoe's?"  Bibbs  asked. 

"Oh,  he's  a  friend  of  the  whole  family,"  she  re 
turned,  with  a  petulance  which  she  made  an  effort 

22 


THE   TURMOIL 

to  disguise.  "Roscoe  and  he  got  acquainted  some 
where,  and  they  take  him  to  the  theater  about  every 
other  night.  Sibyl  has  him  to  lunch,  too,  and 
keeps — "  She  broke  off  with  an  angry  little  jerk  of 
the  head.  "We  can  see  the  New  House  from  the 
second  corner  ahead.  Roscoe  has  built  straight 
across  the  street  from  us,  you  know.  Honestly, 
Sibyl  makes  me  think  of  a  snake,  sometimes — the 
way  she  pulls  the  wool  over  people's  eyes!  She 
honeys  up  to  papa  and  gets  anything  in  the  world 
she  wants  out  of  him,  and  then  makes  fun  of  him  be 
hind  his  back — yes,  and  to  his  face,  but  he  can't  see 
it!  She  got  him  to  give  her  a  twelve -thousand- 
dollar  porch  for  their  house  after  it  was — " 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Bibbs,  staring  ahead  as 
they  reached  the  corner  and  the  car  swung  to  the 
right,  following  a  bend  in  the  street.  "Is  that  the 
New  House?" 

"Yes.    What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"Well,"  he  drawled,  "I'm  pretty  sure  the  sani 
tarium's  about  half  a  size  bigger;  I  can't  be  certain 
till  I  measure." 

And  a  moment  later,  as  they  entered  the  driveway, 
he  added,  seriously: 

"But  it's  beautiful!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  was  gray  stone,  with  long  roofs  of  thick  green 
slate.  An  architect  who  loved  the  milder  "Gothic 
motives"  had  built  what  he  liked:  it  was  to  be  seen 
at  once  that  he  had  been  left  unhampered,  and  he 
had  wrought  a  picture  out  of  his  head  into  a 
noble  and  exultant  reality.  At  the  same  time  a 
landscape -designer  had  played  so  good  a  second, 
with  ready-made  accessories  of  screen,  approach  and 
vista,  that  already  whatever  look  of  newness  re 
mained  upon  the  place  was  to  its  advantage,  as 
showing  at  least  one  thing  yet  clean  under  the  grimy 
sky.  For,  though  the  smoke  was  thinner  in  this 
direction,  and  at  this  long  distance  from  the  heart 
of  the  town,  it  was  not  absent,  and  under  tutelage 
of  wind  and  weather  could  be  malignant  even  here, 
where  cows  had  wandered  in  the  meadows  and 
corn  had  been  growing  not  ten  years  gone. 

Altogether,  the  New  House  was  a  success.  It 
was  one  of  those  architects'  successes  which  leave 
the  owners  veiled  in  privacy;  it  revealed  nothing  of 
the  people  who  lived  in  it  save  that  they  were  rich. 
There  are  houses  that  cannot  be  detached  from  their 
own  people  without  protesting :  every  inch  of  mortar 
seems  to  mourn  the  separation,  and  such  a  house- 
no  matter  what  be  done  to  it — is  ever  murmurous 
with  regret,  whispering  the  old  name  sadly  to  itself 

24 


THE   TURMOIL 

unceasingly.  But  the  New  House  was  of  a  kind  to 
change  hands  without  emotion.  In  our  swelling 
cities,  great  places  of  its  type  are  useful  as  financial 
gauges  of  the  business  tides;  rich  families,  one  after 
another,  take  title  and  occupy  such  houses  as  for 
tunes  rise  and  fall — they  mark  the  high  tide.  It 
was  impossible  to  imagine  a  child's  toy  wagon  left 
upon  a  walk  or  driveway  of  the  New  House,  and 
yet  it  was — as  Bibbs  rightly  called  it — "beautiful." 

What  the  architect  thought  of  the  "Golfo  di 
Napoli,"  which  hung  in  its  vast  gold  revel  of  rococo 
frame  against  the  gray  wood  of  the  hall,  is  to  be 
conjectured — perhaps  he  had  not  seen  it. 

"Edith,  did  you  say  only  eleven  feet?"  Bibbs 
panted,  staring  at  it,  as  the  white- jacketed  twin  of  a 
Pullman  porter  helped  him  to  get  out  of  his  overcoat. 

"Eleven  without  the  frame,"  she  explained.  "It's 
splendid,  don't  you  think?  It  lightens  things  up  so. 
The  hall  was  kind  of  gloomy  before." 

"No  gloom  now!"  said  Bibbs. 

"This  statue  in  the  corner  is  pretty,  too,"  she 
remarked.  "Mamma  and  I  bought  that."  And 
Bibbs  turned  at  her  direction  to  behold,  amid  a 
grove  of  tubbed  palms,  a  "life-size,"  black-bearded 
Moor,  of  a  plastic  composition  painted  with  unap 
peasable  gloss  and  brilliancy.  Upon  his  chocolate 
head  he  wore  a  gold  turban;  in  his  hand  he  held  a 
gold-tipped  spear;  and  for  the  rest,  he  was  red  and 
yellow  and  black  and  silver. 

"Hallelujah!"  was  the  sole  comment  of  the  re 
turned  wanderer,  and  Edith,  saying  she  would  "find 
mamma,"  left  him  blinking  at  the  Moor.  Presently, 
after  she  had  disappeared,  he  turned  to  the  colored 


THE   TURMOIL 

man  who  stood  waiting,  Bibbs's  traveling-bag  in  his 
hand.  "What  do  you  think  of  it?"  Bibbs  asked, 
solemnly. 

"GranM"  replied  the  servitor.  "She  mighty  hard 
to  dus'.  Dus'  git  in  all  'em  wrinkles.  Yessuh,  she 
mighty  hard  to  dus'." 

"I  expect  she  must  be/*  said  Bibbs,  his  glance 
returning  reflectively  to  the  black  bull  beard  for  a 
moment.  "Is  there  a  place  anywhere  I  could  lie 
down?" 

"Yessuh.  We  got  one  nem  spare  rooms  all  fix 
up  fo'  you,  suh.  Right  up  staihs,  suh.  Nice 
room." 

He  led  the  way,  and  Bibbs  followed  slowly,  stop 
ping  at  intervals  to  rest,  and  noting  a  heavy  increase 
in  the  staff  of  service  since  the  exodus  from  the 
"old"  house.  Maids  and  scrubwomen  were  at  work 
under  the  patently  nominal  direction  of  another 
Pullman  porter,  who  was  profoundly  enjoying  his 
own  affectation  of  being  harassed  with  care. 

"Ev'ything  got  look  spick  an*  span  fo'  the  big 
doin's  to-night,"  Bibbs's  guide  explained,  chuckling. 
"Yessuh,  we  got  big  doin's  to-night!  Big  doin's!" 

The  room  to  which  he  conducted  his  lagging  charge 
was  furnished  in  every  particular  like  a  room  in  a 
new  hotel;  and  Bibbs  found  it  pleasant — though, 
indeed,  any  room  with  a  good  bed  would  have  seemed 
pleasant  to  him  after  his  journey.  He  stretched 
himself  flat  immediately,  and  having  replied  "Not 
now"  to  the  attendant's  offer  to  unpack  the  bag, 
closed  his  eyes  wearily. 

White  -  jacket,  racially  sympathetic,  lowered  the 
window-shades  and  made  an  exit  on  tiptoe,  encoun- 

26 


THE   TURMOIL 

tering  the  other  white-jacket — the  harassed  over 
seer — in  the  hall  without.  Said  the  emerging  one: 

"He  mighty  shaky,  Mist'  Jackson.  Drop  right 
down  an'  shet  his  eyes.  Eyelids  all  black.  Rich 
folks  gotta  go  same  as  anybody  else.  Anybody  ast 
me  if  I  change  'ith  'at  ole  boy — No,  suh !  Le'm  keep 
'is  money;  I  keep  my  black  skin  an'  keep  out  the 
ground!" 

Mr.  Jackson  expressed  the  same  preference.  "Yes- 
suh,  he  look  tuh  me  like  somebody  awready  laid 
out,"  he  concluded.  And  upon  the  stairway  landing, 
near  by,  two  old  women,  on  all-fours  at  their  work, 
were  likewise  pessimistic. 

"Hech!"  said  one,  lamenting  in  a  whisper.  "It 
give  me  a  turn  to  see  him  go  by — white  as  wax  an* 
bony  as  a  dead  fish!  Mrs.  Cronin,  tell  me:  d'it 
make  ye  kind  o'  sick  to  look  at  um?" 

"Sick?  No  more  than  the  face  of  a  blessed  angel 
already  in  heaven!" 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  "I'd  a  b'y  o'  me  own  come 
home  t'  die  once — "  She  fell  silent  at  a  rustling  of 
skirts  in  the  corridor  above  them. 

It  was  Mrs.  Sheridan  hurrying  to  greet  her  son. 

She  was  one  of  those  fat,  pink  people  who  fade 
and  contract  with  age  like  drying  fruit;  and  her 
outside  was  a  true  portrait  of  her.  Her  husband 
and  her  daughter  had  long  ago  absorbed  her.  What 
intelligence  she  had  was  given  almost  wholly  to 
comprehending  and  serving  those  two,  and  except 
in  the  presence  of  one  of  them  she  was  nearly  always 
absent-minded.  Edith  lived  all  day  with  her  mother, 
as  daughters  do;  and  Sheridan  so  held  his  wife  to 
her  unity  with  him  that  she  had  long  ago  become 

27  '  - 


THE   TURMOIL 

unconscious  of  her  existence  as  a  thing  separate  from 
his.  She  invariably  perceived  his  moods,  and  nursed 
him  through  them  when  she  did  not  share  them;  and 
she  gave  him  a  profound  sympathy  with  the  inmost 
spirit  and  purpose  cf  his  being,  even  though  she 
did  not  comprehend  it  and  partook  of  it  only  as  a 
spectator.  They  had  known  but  one  actual  alterca 
tion  in  their  lives,  and  that  was  thirty  years  past, 
in  the  early  days  of  Sheridan's  struggle,  when,  in, 
order  to  enhance  the  favorable  impression  he  be 
lieved  himself  to  be  making  upon  some  capitalists, 
he  had  thought  it  necessary  to  accompany  them  to 
a  performance  of  "The  Black  Crook."  But  she 
had  not  once  referred  to  this  during  the  last  ten  years. 

Mrs.  Sheridan's  manner  was  hurried  and  inconse 
quent;  her  clothes  rustled  more  than  other  women's 
clothes;  she  seemed  to  wear  too  many  at  a  time 
and  to  be  vaguely  troubled  by  them,  and  she  was 
patting  a  skirt  down  over  some  unruly  internal  dis 
sension  at  the  moment  she  opened  Bibbs's  door. 

At  sight  of  the  recumbent  figure  she  began  to  close 
the  door  softly,  withdrawing,  but  the  young  man 
had  heard  the  turning  of  the  knob  and  the  rustling 
of  skirts,  and  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"Don't  go,  mother,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  asleep.'1 
He  swung  his  long  legs  over  the  side  of  the  bed  to 
rise,  but  she  set  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  restraining 
him;  and  he  lay  flat  again. 

"No,"  she  said,  bending  over  to  kiss  his  cheek, 
"I  just  come  for  a  minute,  but  I  want  to  see  how 
you  seem.  Edith  said — " 

"Poor  Edith!"  he  murmured.  "She  couldn't  look 
at  me.  She—" 

28 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Nonsense!"  Mrs.  Sheridan,  having  let  in  the 
light  at  a  window,  came  back  to  the  bedside.  "You 
look  a  great  deal  better  than  what  you  did  before 
you  went  to  the  sanitarium,  anyway.  It's  done 
you  good;  a  body  can  see  that  right  away.  You 
need  fatting  up,  of  course,  and  you  haven't  got  much 
color—" 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  haven't  much  color." 

"But  you  will  have  when  you  get  your  strength 
back." 

"Oh  yes!"  he  responded,  cheerfully.  "Then  I 
will." 

"You  look  a  great  deal  better  than  what  I  ex 
pected." 

"Edith  must  have  a  great  vocabulary!"  he 
chuckled. 

"She's  too  sensitive,"  said  MrSc  Sheridan,  "and 
it  makes  her  exaggerate  a  little.  What  about  your 
diet?" 

' '  That's  all  right.    They  told  me  to  eat  anything. ' ' 

"Anything  at  all?" 

"Well— anything  I  could." 

"That's  good,"  she  said,  nodding.  "They  mean 
for  you  just  to  build  up  your  strength.  That's  what 
they  told  me  the  last  time  I  went  to  see  you  at  the 
sanitarium.  You  look  better  than  what  you  did 
then,  and  that's  only  a  little  time  ago.  How  long 
was  it?" 

"Eight  months,  I  think." 

"No,  it  couldn't  be.  I  know  it  ain't  that  long, 
but  maybe  it  was  longer  'n  I  thought.  And  this 
last  month  or  so  I  haven't  had  scarcely  even  time 
to  write  more  than  just  a  line  to  ask  how  you  were 

29 


THE   TURMOIL 

get  tin*  along,  but  I  told  Edith  to  write,  the  weeks  I 
couldn't,  and  I  asked  Jim  to,  too,  and  they  both 
said  they  would,  so  I  suppose  you've  kept  up  pretty 
well  on  the  home  news.'1 

"Oh  yes." 

"What  I  think  you  need,"  said  the  mother, 
gravely,  "is  to  liven  up  a  little  and  take  an  interest 
in  things.  That's  what  papa  was  sayin'  this  morn 
ing,  after  we  got  your  telegram;  and  that's  what  '11 
stimilate  your  appetite,  too.  He  was  talkin'  over 
his  plans  for  you — " 

"Plans?"  Bibbs,  turning  on  his  side,  shielded 
his  eyes  from  the  light  with  his  hand,  so  that  he 
might  see  her  better.  "What — "  _  He  paused. 
"What  plans  is  he  making  for  me,  mother?" 

She  turned  away,  going  back  to  the  window  to 
draw  down  the  shade.  "Well,  you  better  talk  it 
over  with  him,"  she  said,  with  perceptible  nervous 
ness.  "He  better  tell  you  himself.  I  don't  feel  as 
if  I  had  any  call,  exactly,  to  go  into  it;  and  you 
better  get  to  sleep  now,  anyway."  She  came  and 
stood  by  the  bedside  once  more.  "But  you  must 
remember,  Bibbs,  whatever  papa  does  is  for  the 
best.  He  loves  his  chuldern  and  \vants  to  do  what's 
right  by  all  of  'em — and  you'll  always  find  he's  right 
in  the  end." 

He  made  a  little  gesture  of  assent,  which  seemed 
to  content  her;  and  she  rustled  to  the  door,  turning 
to  speak  again  after  she  had  opened  it.  "You  get  a 
good  nap,  now,  so  as  to  be  all  rested  up  for  to-night." 

"You — you  mean — he — "  Bibbs  stammered,  hav 
ing  begun  to  speak  too  quickly.  Checking  him 
self,  he  drew  a  long  breath,  then  asked,  quietly, 

30 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Does  father  expect  me  to  come  down-stairs  this 
evening?" 

"Well,  I  think  he  does,"  she  answered.  "You 
see,  it's  the  'house-warming,'  as  he  calls  it,  and  he 
said  he  thinks  all  our  chuldern  ought  to  be  around 
us,  as  well  as  the  old  friends  and  other  folks.  It's 
just  what  he  thinks  you  need — to  take  an  interest 
and  liven  up.  You  don't  feel  too  bad  to  come  down, 
do  you?" 

"Mother?" 

"Well?" 

"Take  a  good  look  at  me,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  see  here!"  she  cried,  with  brusque  cheerful 
ness.  "You're  not  so  bad  off  as  you  think  you  are, 
Bibbs.  You're  on  the  mend;  and  it  won't  do  you 
any  harm  to  please  your — " 

"It  isn't  that,"  he  interrupted.  "Honestly,  I'm 
only  afraid  it  might  spoil  somebody's  appetite. 
Edith—" 

"I  told  you  the  child  was  too  sensitive,"  she  inter 
rupted,  in  turn.  "You're  a  plenty  good-lookin' 
enough  young  man  for  anybody !  You  look  like  you 
been  through  a  long  spell  and  begun  to  get  well,  and 
that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"All  right.  I'll  come  to  the  party.  If  the  rest  of 
you  can  stand  it,  I  can!" 

"It  'il  do  you  good,"  she  returned,  rustling  into  the 
hall.  "Now  take  a  nap,  and  I'll  send  one  o'  the 
help  to  wake  you  in  time  for  you  to  get  dressed  up 
before  dinner.  You  go  to  sleep  right  away,  now, 
Blobs!" 

Bibbs  was  unable  to  obey,  though  he  kept  his 
eyes  closed.  Something  she  had  said  kept  running 
3  31 


THE   TURMOIL 

in  his  mind,  repeating  itself  over  and  over  inter 
minably.  "His  plans  for  you — his  plans  for  you — 
his  plans  for  you — his  plans  for  you — "  And  then, 
taking  the  place  of  "his  plans  for  you,"  after  what 
seemed  a  long,  long  while,  her  flurried  voice  came 
back  to  him  insistently,  seeming  to  whisper  in  his 
ear :  ' '  He  loves  his  chuldern — he  loves  his  chuldern — 
he  loves  his  chuldern  " — "you'll  find  he's  always  right 
— you'll  find  he's  always  right — "  Until  at  last,  as 
he  drifted  into  the  state  of  half -dreams  and  distorted 
realities,  the  voice  seemed  to  murmur  from  beyond 
a  great  black  wing  that  came  out  of  the  wall  and 
stretched  over  his  bed — it  was  a  black  wing  within 
the  room,  and  at  the  same  time  it  was  a  black  cloud 
crossing  the  sky,  bridging  the  whole  earth  from  pole 
to  pole.  It  was  a  cloud  of  black  smoke,  and  out  of 
the  heart  of  it  came  a  flurried  voice  whispering  over 
and  over,  "His  plans  for  you — his  plans  for  you — 
his  plans  for  you — "  And  then  there  was  nothing. 

He  woke  refreshed,  stretched  himself  gingerly — as 
one  might  have  a  care  against  too  quick  or  too  long 
a  pull  upon  a  frayed  elastic — and,  getting  to  his 
feet,  went  blinking  to  the  window  and  touched  the 
shade  so  that  it  flew  up,  letting  in  a  pale  sunset. 

He  looked  out  into  the  lemon-colored  light  and 
smiled  wanly  at  the  next  house,  as  Edith's  grandiose 
phrase  came  to  mind,  "the  old  Vertrees  country 
mansion."  It  stood  in  a  broad  lawn  which  was 
separated  from  the  Sheridans'  by  a  young  hedge; 
and  it  was  a  big,  square,  plain  old  box  of  a  house 
with  a  giant  salt-cellar  atop  for  a  cupola.  Paint  had 
been  spared  for  a  long  time,  and  no  one  could  have 
put  a  name  to  the  color  of  it,  but  in  spite  of  that 

32 


THE   TURMOIL 

the  place  had  no  look  of  being  out  at  heel,  and  the 
sward  was  as  neatly  trimmed  as  the  Sheridans'  own. 

The  separating  hedge  ran  almost  beneath  Bibbs's 
window — for  this  wing  of  the  New  House  extended 
here  almost  to  the  edge  of  the  lot — and,  directly 
opposite  the  window,  the  Vertreeses'  lawn  had  been 
graded  so  as  to  make  a  little  knoll  upon  which  stood 
a  small  rustic  "summer-house."  It  was  almost  on  a 
level  with  Bibbs's  window  and  not  thirty  feet  away ; 
and  it  was  easy  for  him  to  imagine  the  present 
dynasty  of  Vertreeses  in  grievous  outcry  when  they 
had  found  this  retreat  ruined  by  the  juxtaposition 
of  the  parvenu  intruder.  Probably  the  "summer- 
house"  was  pleasant  and  pretty  in  summer.  It  had 
the  look  of  a  place  wherein  little  girls  had  played  for 
a  generation  or  so  with  dolls  and  "housekeeping," 
or  where  a  lovely  old  lady  might  come  to  read  some 
thing  dull  on  warm  afternoons;  but  now  in  the  thin 
light  it  was  desolate,  the  color  of  dust,  and  hung 
with  haggard  vines  which  had  lost  their  leaves. 

Bibbs  looked  at  it  with  grave  sympathy,  probably 
feeling  some  kinship  with  anything  so  dismantled; 
then  he  turned  to  a  cheval-glass  beside  the  window 
and  paid  himself  the  dubious  tribute  of  a  thorough 
inspection.  He  looked  the  mirror  up  and  down, 
slowly,  repeatedly,  but  came  in  the  end  to  a  long 
and  earnest  scrutiny  of  the  face.  Throughout  this 
cryptic  seance  his  manner  was  profoundly  imper 
sonal;  he  had  the  air  of  an  entomologist  intent  upon 
classifying  a  specimen,  but  finally  he  appeared  to 
become  pessimistic.  He  shook  his  head  solemnly; 
then  gazed  again  and  shook  his  head  again,  and  con 
tinued  to  shake  it  slowly,  in  complete  disapproval. 

33 


THE  TURMOIL 

"You  certainly  are  one  horrible  sight!"  he  said, 
aloud. 

And  at  that  he  was  instantly  aware  of  an  observer. 
Turning  quickly,  he  was  vouchsafed  the  picture  of  a 
charming  lady,  framed  in  a  rustic  aperture  of  the 
"summer-house"  and  staring  full  into  his  window — 
straight  into  his  eyes,  too,  for  the  infinitesimal  frac 
tion  of  a  second  before  the  flashingly  censorious  with 
drawal  of  her  own.  Composedly,  she  pulled  several 
dead  twigs  from  a  vine,  the  manner  of  her  action 
conveying  a  message  or  proclamation  to  the  effect 
that  she  was  in  the  summer-house  for  the  sole  pur 
pose  of  such-like  pruning  and  tending,  and  that  no 
gentleman  could  suppose  her  presence  there  to  be 
due  to  any  other  purpose  whatsoever,  or  that,  being 
there  on  that  account,  she  had  allowed  her  attention 
to  wander  for  one  instant  in  the  direction  of  things  of 
which  she  was  in  reality  unconscious. 

Having  pulled  enough  twigs  to  emphasize  her  un 
consciousness — and  at  the  same  time  her  disap 
proval — of  everything  in  the  nature  of  a  Sheridan 
or  belonging  to  a  Sheridan,  she  descended  the  knoll 
with  maintained  composure,  and  sauntered  toward  a 
side-door  of  the  country  mansion  of  the  Vertreeses. 
An  elderly  lady,  bonneted  and  cloaked,  opened  the 
door  and  came  to  meet  her. 

"Are  you  ready,  Mary?  I've  been  looking  for 
you.  What  were  you  doing?" 

"Nothing.  Just  looking  into  one  of  Sheridans* 
windows, ' '  said  Mary  Vertrees.  "  I  got  caught  at  it. ' ' 

"Mary!"  cried  her  mother.  "Just  as  we  were 
going  to  call!  Good  heavens!" 

"We'll  go,  just  the  same,"  the  daughter  returned 

34 


THE  TURMOIL 

"I  suppose  those  women  would  be  glad  to  have  us 
if  we'd  burned  their  house  to  the  ground." 

"But  who  saw  you?"  insisted  Mrs.  Vertrees. 

"One  of  the  sons,  I  suppose  he  was.  I  believe 
he's  insane,  or  something.  At  least  I  hear  they  keep 
him  in  a  sanitarium  somewhere,  and  never  talk  about 
him.  He  was  staring  at  himself  in  a  mirror  and 
talking  to  himself.  Then  he  looked  out  and  caught 


me." 


"What  did  he—" 

"Nothing,  of  course." 

"How  did  he  look?" 

"Like  a  ghost  in  a  blue  suit,"  said  Miss  Vertrees, 
moving  toward  the  street  and  waving  a  white-gloved 
hand  in  farewell  to  her  father,  who  was  observing 
them  from  the  window  of  his  library.  "Rather 
tragic  and  altogether  impossible.  Do  come  on, 
mother,  and  let's  get  it  over!" 

And  Mrs.  Vertrees,  with  many  misgivings,  set 
forth  with  her  daughter  for  their  gracious  assault 
upon  the  New  House  next  door. 


CHAPTER  V 

MR.  VERTREES,  having  watched  theit  depat- 
ture  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  some 
thing  at  hazard  upon  the  expedition,  turned  from 
the  window  and  began  to  pace  the  library  thought 
fully,  pending  their  return.  He  was  about  sixty;  a 
small  man,  withered  and  dry  and  fine,  a  trim  little 
sketch  of  the  elderly  dandy.  His  lambrequin  mus 
tache — relic  of  a  forgotten  Anglomania — had  been 
profoundly  black,  but  now,  like  his  smooth  hair,  it 
was  approaching  an  equally  sheer  whiteness;  and 
though  his  clothes  were  old,  they  had  shapeliness 
and  a  flavor  of  mode.  And  for  greater  spruceness 
there  were  some  jaunty  touches:  gray  spats,  a  nar 
row  black  ribbon  across  the  gray  waistcoat  to  the 
eye-glasses  in  a  pocket,  a  fleck  of  color  from  a  button 
in  the  lapel  of  the  black  coat,  labeling  him  the  de 
scendant  of  patriot  warriors.  \> 

The  room  was  not  like  him,  being  cheerful  and 
hideous,  whereas  Mr.  Vertrees  was  anxious  and 
decorative.  Under  a  mantel  of  imitation  black  mar 
ble  a  merry  little  coal-fire  beamed  forth  upon  high 
and  narrow  "Eastlake"  bookcases  with  long  glass 
doors,  and  upon  comfortable,  incongruous  furniture, 
and  upon  meaningless  "  woodwork "  everywhere,  and 
upon  half  a  dozen  Landseer  engravings  which  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Vertrees  sometimes  mentioned  to  each  other, 

36 


THE   TURMOIL 

after  thirty  years  of  possession,  as  "very  fine  things." 
They  had  been  the  first  people  in  town  to  possess 
Landseer  engravings,  and  there,  in  art,  they  had 
rested,  but  they  still  had  a  feeling  that  in  all 
such  matters  they  were  in  the  van;  and  when  Mr. 
Vertrees  discovered  Landseers  upon  the  walls  of 
other  people's  houses  he  thawed,  as  a  chieftain  to  a 
trusted  follower;  and  if  he  found  an  edition  of 
Bulwer  Lytton  accompanying  the  Landseers  as  a 
final  corroboration  of  culture,  he  would  say,  inev 
itably,  "Those  people  know  good  pictures  and  they 
know  good  books." 

The  growth  of  the  city,  which  might  easily  have 
made  him  a  millionaire,  had  ruined  him  because  he 
had  failed  to  understand  it.  When  towns  begin  to 
grow  they  have  whims,  and  the  whims  of  a  town 
always  ruin  somebody.  Mr.  Vertrees  had  been  most 
strikingly  the  somebody  in  this  case.  At  about  the 
time  he  bought  the  Landseers,  he  owned,  through 
inheritance,  an  office-building  and  a  large  house  not 
far  from  it,  where  he  spent  the  winter;  and  he  had  a 
country  place — a  farm  of  four  hundred  acres — where 
he  went  for  the  summers  to  the  comfortable,  ugly  old 
house  that  was  his  home  now,  perforce,  all  the  year 
round.  If  he  had  known  how  to  sit  still  and  let  things 
happen  he  would  have  prospered  miraculously;  but, 
strangely  enough,  the  dainty  little  man  was  one  of 
the  first  to  fall  down  and  worship  Bigness,  the  which 
proceeded  straightway  to  enact  the  r61e  of  Jugger 
naut  for  his  better  education.  He  was  a  true  prophet 
of  the  prodigious  growth,  but  he  had  a  fatal  gift  for 
selling  good  and  buying  bad.  He  should  have  stayed 
at  home  and  looked  at  his  Landseers  and  read  his 

37 


THE  TURMOIL 

Bulwer,  but  he  took  his  cow  to  market,  and  the 
trained  milkers  milked  her  dry  and  then  ate  her. 
He  sold  the  office-building  and  the  house  in  town  to 
buy  a  great  tract  of  lots  in  a  new  suburb;  then  he 
sold  the  farm,  except  the  house  and  the  ground  about 
it,  to  pay  the  taxes  on  the  suburban  lots  and  to 
"keep  them  up."  The  lots  refused  to  stay  up;  but 
he  had  to  do  something  to  keep  himself  and  his 
family  up,  so  in  despair  he  sold  the  lots  (which 
went  up  beautifully  the  next  year)  for  "traction 
stock"  that  was  paying  dividends;  and  thereafter 
he  ceased  to  buy  and  sell.  Thus  he  disappeared 
altogether  from  the  commercial  surface  at  about  the 
time  James  Sheridan  came  out  securely  on  top;  and 
Sheridan,  until  Mrs.  Vertrees  called  upon  him  with 
her  "anti-smoke"  committee,  had  never  heard  the 
name. 

Mr.  Vertrees,  pinched,  retired  to  his  Landseers, 
and  Mrs.  Vertrees  "managed  somehow"  on  the  divi 
dends,  though  "managing"  became  more  and  more 
difficult  as  the  years  went  by  and  money  bought  less 
and  less.  But  there  came  a  day  when  three  servitors 
of  Bigness  in  Philadelphia  took  greedy  counsel  with 
four  fellow-worshipers  from  New  York,  and  not  long 
after  that  there  were  no  more  dividends  for  Mr. 
Vertrees.  In  fact,  there  was  nothing  for  Mr.  Ver 
trees,  because  the  "traction  stock"  henceforth  was 
no  stock  at  all,  and  he  had  mortgaged  his  house 
long  ago  to  help  "manage  somehow"  according  to 
his  conception  of  his  "position  in  life" — one  of  his 
own  old-fashioned  phrases.  Six  months  before  the 
completion  of  the  New  House  next  door,  Mr.  Vertrees 
had  sold  his  horses  and  the  worn  Victoria  and 

38 


THE   TURMOIL 

"station-wagon,"  to  pay  the  arrears  of  his  two  ser 
vants  and  re-establish  credit  at  the  grocer's  and 
butcher's — and  a  pair  of  elderly  carriage-horses  with 
such  accoutrements  are  not  very  ample  barter,  in 
these  days,  for  six  months'  food  and  fuel  and  service. 
Mr.  Vertrees  had  discovered,  too,  that  there  was  no 
salary  for  him  in  all  the  buzzing  city — he  could  do 
nothing. 

It  may  be  said  that  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  string. 
Such  times  do  come  in  all  their  bitterness,  finally,  to 
the  man  with  no  trade  or  craft,  if  his  feeble  clutch  on 
that  slippery  ghost,  Property,  shall  fail. 

The  windows  grew  black  while  he  paced  the  room, 
and  smoky  twilight  closed  round  about  the  house, 
yet  not  more  darkly  than  what  closed  round  about 
the  heart  of  the  anxious  little  man  patrolling  the  fan- 
shaped  zone  of  firelight.  But  as  the  mantel  clock 
struck  wheezily  six  there  was  the  rattle  of  an  outer 
door,  and  a  rich  and  beautiful  peal  of  laughter  went 
ringing  through  the  house.  Thus  cheerfully  did 
Mary  Vertrees  herald  her  return  with  her  mother 
from  their  expedition  among  the  barbarians. 

She  came  rushing  into  the  library  and  threw  her 
self  into  a  deep  chair  by  the  hearth,  laughing  so  un- 
controllabfy  that  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Ver 
trees  followed  decorously,  no  mirth  about  her;  on 
the  contrary,  she  looked  vaguely  disturbed,  as  if  she 
had  eaten  something  not  quite  certain  to  agree  with 
her,  and  regretted  it. 

"Papa!  Oh,  oh!"  And  Miss  Vertrees  was  fain  to 
apply  a  handkerchief  upon  her  eyes.  "I'm  so  glad 
you  made  us  go!  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it — " 

Mrs.  Vertrees  shook  her  head.  "I  suppose  I'm 

39 


THE   TURMOIL 

very  dull,"  she  said,  gently.  "I  didn't  see  anything 
amusing.  They're  most  ordinary,  and  the  house  is 
altogether  in  bad  taste,  but  we  anticipated  that, 
and—" 

"Papa!"  Mary  cried,  breaking  in.  "They  asked 
us  to  dinner!11 

"What!" 

"And  I'm  going!"  she  shouted,  and  was  seized 
with  fresh  paroxysms.  "Think  of  it!  Never  in 
their  house  before;  never  met  any  of  them  but  the 
daughter — and  just  barely  met  her — " 

"What  about  you?"  interrupted  Mr.  Vertrees, 
turning  sharply  upon  his  wife. 

She  made  a  little  face  as  if  positive  now  that  what 
she  had  eaten  would  not  agree  with  her.  * '  I  couldn't !" 
she  said.  "I—" 

"Yes,  that's  just — just  the  way  she — she  looked 
when  they  asked  her!"  cried  Mary,  choking.  "And 
then  she — she  realized  it,  and  tried  to  turn  it  into  a 
cough,  and  she  didn't  know  how,  and  it  sounded 
like — like  a  squeal!" 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Vertrees,  much  injured, 
"that  Mary  will  have  an  uproarious  time  at  my 
funeral.  She  makes  fun  of — " 

Mary  jumped  up  instantly  and  kissed  her;  then 
she  went  to  the  mantel  and,  leaning  an  elbow  upon 
it,  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  buckle  of  her  shoe, 
twinkling  in  the  firelight. 

"They  didn't  notice  anything,"  she  said.  "So 
far  as  they  were  concerned,  mamma,  it  was  one  of 
the  fines.t  coughs  you  ever  coughed." 

"Who  were  'they'?"  asked  her  father.  "Whom 
did  you  see?" 

40 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Only  the  mother  and  daughter,"  Mary  answered. 
"Mrs.  Sheridan  is  dumpy  and  rustly;  and  Miss 
Sheridan  is  pretty  and  pushing — dresses  by  the 
fashion  magazines  and  talks  about  New  York  people 
that  have  their  pictures  in  'em.  She  tutors  the 
mother,  but  not  very  successfully — partly  because 
her  own  foundation  is  too  flimsy  and  partly  because 
she  began  too  late.  They've  got  an  enormous  Moor 
of  painted  plaster  or  something  in  the  hall,  and  the 
girl  evidently  thought  it  was  to  her  credit  that  she 
selected  it!" 

"They  have  oil-paintings,  too,"  added  Mrs.  Ver- 
trees,  with  a  glance  of  gentle  pride  at  the  Landseers. 
"I've  always  thought  oil-paintings  in  a  private 
house  the  worst  of  taste." 

"Oh,  if  one  owned  a  Raphael  or  a  Titian!"  said 
Mr.  Vertrees,  finishing  the  implication,  not  in  words, 
but  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "Go  on,  Mary.  None 
of  the  rest  of  them  came  in?  You  didn't  meet  Mr. 
Sheridan  or — "  He  paused  and  adjusted  a  lump  of 
coal  in  the  fire  delicately  with  the  poker.  "Or  one 
of  the  sons?" 

Mary's  glance  crossed  his,  at  that,  with  a  flash 
of  utter  comprehension.  He  turned  instantly  away, 
but  she  had  begun  to  laugh  again. 

"No,"  she  said,  "no  one  except  the  women,  but 
mamma  inquired  about  the  sons  thoroughly!" 

"Mary!"  Mrs.  Vertrees  protested. 

1 '  Oh,  most  adroitly,  too !"  laughed  the  girl.  ' '  Only 
she  couldn't  help  unconsciously  turning  to  look  at 
me — when  she  did  it!" 

"Mary  Vertrees!" 

"Never  mind,  mamma!  Mrs.  Sheridan  and  Miss 

41 


THE  TURMOIL 

) 

Sheridan  neither  of  them  could  help  unconsciously 
turning  to  look  at  me — speculatively — at  the  same 
time!  They  all  three  kept  looking  at  me  and  talking 
about  the  oldest  son,  Mr.  James  Sheridan,  Junior. 
Mrs.  Sheridan  said  his  father  is  very  anxious  'to 
get  Jim  to  marry  and  settle  down,'  and  she  assured 
me  that  'Jim  is  right  cultivated.'  Another  of  the 
sons,  the  youngest  one,  caught  me  looking  in  the 
window  this  afternoon;  but  they  didn't  seem  to 
consider  him  quite  one  of  themselves,  somehow, 
though  Mrs.  Sheridan  mentioned  that  a  couple  of 
years  or  so  ago  he  had  been  'right  sick,'  and  had  been 
to  some  cure  or  other.  They  seemed  relieved  to 
bring  the  subject  back  to  'Jim'  and  his  virtues — 
and  to  look  at  me !  The  other  brother  is  the  middle 
one,  Roscoe;  he's  the  one  that  owns  the  new  house 
across  the  street,  where  that  young  black-sheep  of 
the  Lamhorns,  Robert,  goes  so  often.  I  saw  a 
short,  dark  young  man  standing  on  the  porch  with 
Robert  Lamhorn  there  the  other  day,  so  I  suppose 
that  was  Roscoe.  'Jim'  still  lurks  in  the  mists,  but 
I  shall  meet  him  to-night.  Papa — "  She  stepped 
nearer  to  him  so  that  he  had  to  face  her,  and  his 
eyes  were  troubled  as  he  did.  There  may  have  been 
a  trouble  deep  within  her  own,  but  she  kept  their 
surface  merry  with  laughter.  "Papa,  Bibbs  is  the 
youngest  one's  name,  and  Bibbs — to  the  best  of  our 
information — is  a  lunatic.  Roscoe  is  married.  Papa, 
does  it  have  to  be  Jim?" 

"Mary!"  Mrs.  Vertrees  cried,  sharply.  "You're 
outrageous!  That's  a  perfectly  horrible  way  of 
talking!" 

"Well,  I'm  close  to  twenty-four,"  said  Mary,  turn- 

42 


THE   TURMOIL 

ing  to  her.  "I  haven't  been  able  to  like  anybody 
yet  that's  asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  maybe  I 
never  shall.  Until  a  year  or  so  ago  I've  had  every 
thing  I  ever  wanted  in  my  life — you  and  papa  gave 
it  all  to  me — and  it's  about  time  I  began  to  pay  back. 
Unfortunately,  I  don't  know  how  to  do  anything — 
but  something's  got  to  be  done." 

"But  you  needn't  talk  of  it  like  that!"  insisted  the 
mother,  plaintively.  "It's  not — it's  not — " 

"No,  it's  not,"  said  Mary.    "I  know  that!" 

*  *  How  did  they  happen  to  ask  you  to  dinner  ? ' '  Mr. 
Vertrees  inquired,  uneasily.  ' '  'Stextrawdn'ry  thing !" 

"Climbers'  hospitality,"  Mary  defined  it.  "We 
were  so  very  cordial  and  easy !  I  think  Mrs.  Sheridan 
herself  might  have  done  it  just  as  any  kind  old  woman 
on  a  farm  might  ask  a  neighbor,  but  it  was  Miss 
Sheridan  who  did  it.  She  played  around  it  awhile; 
you  could  see  she  wanted  to — she's  in  a  dreadful 
hurry  to  get  into  things — and  I  fancied  she  had  an 
idea  it  might  impress  that  Lamhorn  boy  to  find  us 
there  to-night.  It's  a  sort  of  house-warming  dinner, 
and  they  talked  about  it  and  talked  about  it — and 
then  the  girl  got  her  courage  up  and  blurted  out  the 
invitation.  And  mamma — "  Here  Mary  was  once 
more  a  victim  to  incorrigible  merriment.  "Mamma 
tried  to  say  yes,  and  couldn't!  She  swallowed  and 
squealed — I  mean  you  coughed,  dear!  And  then, 
papa,  she  said  that  you  and  she  had  promised  to 
go  to  a  lecture  at  the  Emerson  Club  to-night,  but 
that  her  daughter  would  be  delighted  to  come  to 
the  Big  Show!  So  there  I  am,  and  there's  Mr.  Jim 
Sheridan — and  there's  the  clock!  Dinner's  at  seven- 
thirty!" 

43 


THE   TURMOIL 

And  she  ran  out  of  the  room,  scooping  up  her 
fallen  furs  with  a  gesture  of  flying  grace  as  she  sped. 

When  she  came  down,  at  twenty  minutes  after 
seven,  her  father  stood  in  the  hall,  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  waiting  to  be  her  escort  through  the  dark. 
He  looked  up  and  watched  her  as  she  descended, 
and  his  gaze  was  fond  and  proud — and  profoundly 
disturbed.  But  she  smiled  and  nodded  gaily,  and, 
when  she  reached  the  floor,  put  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"At  least  no  one  could  suspect  me  to-night," 
she  said.  "I  look  rich,  don't  I,  papa?" 

She  did.  She  had  a  look  that  worshipful  girl 
friends  bravely  called  "regal."  A  head  taller  than 
her  father,  she  was  as  straight  and  jauntily  poised 
as  a  boy  athlete ;  and  her  brown  hair  and  her  brown 
eyes  were  like  her  mother's,  but  for  the  rest  she 
went  back  to  some  stronger  and  livelier  ancestor 
than  either  of  her  parents. 

"Don't  I  look  too  rich  to  be  suspected?"  she  in 
sisted. 

"You  look  everything  beautiful,  Mary,"  he  said, 
huskily. 

"And  my  dress?"  She  threw  open  her  dark  vel 
vet  cloak,  showing  a  splendor  of  white  and  silver. 
"Anything  better  at  Nice  next  winter,  do  you  think?" 
She  laughed,  shrouding  her  glittering  figure  in  the 
cloak  again.  "Two  years  old,  and  no  one  would 
dream  it!  I  did  it  over." 

"You  can  do  anything,  Mary." 

There  was  a  curious  humility  in  his  tone,  and 
something  more — a  significance  not  veiled  and  yet 
abysmally  apologetic.  It  was  as  if  he  suggested, 

44 


THE   TURMOIL 

something  to  her  and  begged  her  forgiveness  in  the 
same  breath. 

And  upon  that,  for  the  moment,  she  became  as 
serious  as  he.  She  lifted  her  hand  from  his  shoulder 
and  then  set  it  back  more  firmly,  so  that  he  should 
feel  the  reassurance  of  its  pressure. 

" Don't  worry,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice  and  grave 
ly.  * '  I  know  exactly  what  you  want  me  to  do. " 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  a  brave  and  lustrous  banquet;  and  a 
noisy  one,  too,  because  there  was  an  orchestra 
among  some  plants  at  one  end  of  the  long  dining- 
room,  and  after  a  preliminary  stiffness  the  guests 
were  impelled  to  converse — necessarily  at  the  tops 
of  their  voices.  The  whole  company  of  fifty  sat  at 
a  great  oblong  table,  improvised  for  the  occasion 
by  carpenters;  but,  not  betraying  itself  as  an  im 
provisation,  it  seemed  a  permanent  continent  of 
damask  and  lace,  with  shores  of  crystal  and  silver 
running  up  to  spreading  groves  of  orchids  and  lilies 
and  white  roses — an  inhabited  continent,  evidently, 
for  there  were  three  marvelous,  gleaming  buildings: 
one  in  the  center  and  one  at  each  end,  white  miracles 
wrought  by  some  inspired  craftsman  in  sculptural 
icing;  They  were  models  in  miniature,  and  they 
represented  the  Sheridan  Building,  the  Sheridan 
Apartments,  and  the  Pump  Works.  Nearly  all  the 
guests  recognized  them  without  having  to  be  told 
what  they  were,  and  pronounced  the  likenesses  superb. 
The  arrangement  of  the  table  was  visibly  baronial. 
At  the  head  sat  the  great  Thane,  with  the  flower  of 
his  family  and  of  the  guests  about  him;  then  on 
each  side  came  the  neighbors  of  the  "old"  house, 
grading  down  to  vassals  and  retainers — superin 
tendents,  cashiers,  heads  of  departments,  and  the 

46 


THE   TURMOIL 

like — at  the  foot,  where  the  Thane's  lady  took  her 
place  as  a  consolation  for  the  less  important.  Here, 
too,  among  the  thralls  and  bondmen,  sat  Bibbs 
Sheridan,  a  meek  Banquo,  wondering  how  anybody 
could  look  at  him  and  eat. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  vast,  continuous  eating, 
for  these  were  wholesome  folk  who  understood  that 
dinner  meant  something  intended  for  introduction 
into  the  system  by  means  of  an  aperture  in  the  face, 
devised  by  nature  for  that  express  purpose.  And 
besides,  nobody  looked  at  Bibbs. 

He  was  better  content  to  be  left  to  himself;  his 
voice  was  not  strong  enough  to  make  itself  heard 
over  the  hubbub  without  an  exhausting  effort,  and 
the  talk  that  went  on  about  him  was  too  fast  and 
too  fragmentary  for  his  drawl  to  keep  pace  with  it. 
So  he  felt  relieved  when  each  of  his  neighbors  in 
turn,  after  a  polite  inquiry  about  his  health,  turned 
to  seek  livelier  responses  in  other  directions.  For 
the  talk  went  on  with  the  eating,  incessantly.  It 
rose  over  the  throbbing  of  the  orchestra  and  the 
clatter  and  clinking  of  silver  and  china  and  glass, 
and  there  was  a  mighty  babble. 

"Yes,  sir!  Started  without  a  dollar."  .  .  .  "Yel 
low  flounces  on  the  overskirt — "  .  .  .  "I  says,  'Wilkie, 
your  department's  got  to  go  bigger  this  year/  I 
says."  .  .  .  "Fifteen  per  cent,  turnover  in  thirty-one 
weeks."  .  .  .  "One  of  the  biggest  men  in  the  big 
gest — "  .  .  .  "The  wife  says  she'll  have  to  let  out 
my  pants  if  my  appetite — "  .  .  .  "Say,  did  you  see 
that  statue  of  a  Turk  in  the  hall?  One  of  the  finest 
things  I  ever — "  .  .  .  "'Not  a  dollar,  not  a  nickel, 
not  one  red  cent  do  you  get  out  o'  me,'  I  says,  and 
4  47 


THE   TURMOIL 

so  he  ups  and — "  .  .  .  "Yes,  the  baby  makes  four 
they've  lost,  now."  .  .  .  "Well,  they  got  their  raise, 
and  they  went  in  big."  .  .  .  "Yes,  sir!  Not  a  dol 
lar  to  his  name,  and  look  at  what — "  .  .  .  "You 
wait!  The  population  of  this  town's  goin'  to  hit 
the  million  mark  before  she  stops."  .  .  .  "Well,  if 
you  can  show  me  a  bigger  deal  than — " 

And  through  the  interstices  of  this  clamoring 
Bibbs  could  hear  the  continual  booming  of  his 
father's  heavy  voice,  and  once  he  caught  the  sen 
tence,  "Yes,  young  lady,  that's  just  what  did  it 
for  me,  and  that's  just  what  '11  do  it  for  my  boys — - 
they  got  to  make  two  blades  o'  grass  grow  where 
one  grew  before!"  It  was  his  familiar  flourish,  an 
old  story  to  Bibbs,  and  now  jovially  declaimed  for 
the  edification  of  Mary  Vertrees.  ^ 

It  was  a  great  night  for  Sheridan — the  very  crest 
of  his  wave.  He  sat  there  knowing  himself  Thane 
and  master  by  his  own  endeavor;  and  his  big, 
smooth,  red  face  grew  more  and  more  radiant  with 
good  will  and  with  the  simplest,  happiest,  most  boy- 
like  vanity.  He  was  the  picture  of  health,  of  good 
cheer,  and  of  power  on  a  holiday.  He  had  thirty 
teeth,  none  bought,  and  showed  most  of  them  when 
he  laughed;  his  grizzled  hair  was  thick,  and  as  un 
ruly  as  a  farm  laborer's;  his  chest  was  deep  and  big 
beneath  its  vast  facade  of  starched  white  linen, 
where  little  diamonds  twinkled,  circling  three  large 
pearls;  his  hands  were  stubby  and  strong,  and  he 
used  them  freely  in  gestures  of  marked  picturesque- 
ness;  and,  though  he  had  grown  fat  at  chin  and 
waist  and  wrist,  he  had  not  lost  the  look  of  readiness 
and  activity. 


THE   TURMOIL 

He  dominated  the  table,  shouting  jocular  ques 
tions  and  railleries  at  every  one.  His  idea  was  that 
when  people  were  having  a  good  time  they  were 
noisy;  and  his  own  additions  to  the  hubbub  in 
creased  his  pleasure,  and,  of  course,  met  the  warmest 
encouragement  from  his  guests.  Edith  had  discov 
ered  that  he  had  very  foggy  notions  of  the  difference 
between  a  band  and  an  orchestra,  and  when  it  was 
made  clear  to  him  he  had  held  out  for  a  band  until 
Edith  threatened  tears;  but  the  size  of  the  orchestra 
they  hired  consoled  him,  and  he  had  now  no  regrets 
in  the  matter. 

He  kept  time  to  the  music  continually — with  his 
feet,  or  pounding  on  the  table  with  his  fist,  and  some 
times  with  spoon  or  knife  upon  his  plate  or  a  glass, 
without  permitting  these  side-products  to  interfere 
with  the  real  business  of  eating  and  shouting. 

"Tell  'em  to  play  ' Nancy  Lee'!"  he  would  bellow 
down  the  length  of  the  table  to  his  wife,  while  the 
musicians  were  in  the  midst  of  the  "Toreador" 
song,  perhaps.  "Ask  that  fellow  if  they  don't  know 
'Nancy  Lee'!"  And  when  the  leader  would  shake 
his  head  apologetically  in  answer  to  an  obedient 
shriek  from  Mrs.  Sheridan,  the  "Toreador"  contin 
uing  vehemently,  Sheridan  would  roar  half -remem 
bered  fragments  of  "Nancy  Lee,"  naturally  mingling 
some  Bizet  with  the  air  of  that  uxorious  tribute. 

"O/i,  there  she  stands  and  waves  her  hands  while 
Tm  away  I 

"A  sail-er's  wife  a  sail-er's  star  should  be!  Yo  ho, 
oh,  oh! 

"Oh,  Nancy,  Nancy,  Nancy  Lee!  Oh,  Na-hancy 
Lee! 

49 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Hay,  there,  old  lady!"  he  would  bellow.  "Tell 
'em  to  play  'In  the  Gloaming.'  In  the  gloaming,  oh, 
my  darling,  la-la-lum-tee—  Well,  if  they  don't  know 
that,  what's  the  matter  with  'Larboard  Watch, 
Ahoy'?  That's  good  music!  That's  the  kind  o' 
music  7  like!  Come  on,  now!  Mrs.  Callin,  get 
'em  singin'  down  in  your  part  o'  the  table.  What's 
the  matter  you  folks  down  there,  anyway?  Lar 
board  watch,  ahoy! 

11  What  joy  he  feels,  as  —  ta-tum-dum-tee-dee-dum 
steals.    La-a-r-board  watch,  ahoy!" 

No  external  bubbling  contributed  to  this  effer 
vescence:  the  Sheridans'  table  had  never  borne  wine, 
and,  more  because  of  timidity  about  it  than  convic 
tion,  it  bore  none  now;    though  "mineral  waters" 
were  copiously  poured  from  bottles  wrapped,  for 
some  reason,  in  napkins,  and  proved  wholly  satisfac 
tory  to  almost  all  of  the  guests.    And  certainly  no 
wine  could  have  inspired  more  turbulent  good  spirits* 
in  the  host.     Not  even  Bibbs  was  an  alloy  in  this 
night's  happiness,  for,  as  Mrs.  Sheridan  had  said 
he  had  "plans  for  Bibbs"— plans  which  were  going 
to  straighten  out  some  things  that  had  gone  wrong. 
So  he  pounded  the  table  and  boomed  his  echoes  of 
old  songs,  and  then,  forgetting  these,  would  renew 
his  friendly  railleries,  or  perhaps,  turning  to  Mary 
Vertrees,  who  sat  near  him,  round  the  corner  of  the 
table  at  his  right,  he  would  become  autobiographical. 
Gentlemen  less  naive  than  he  had  paid  her  that 
tribute,  for  she  was  a  girl  who  inspired  the  auto 
biographical  impulse  in  every  man  who  met  he~— it 
needed  but  the  sight  of  her. 
The  dinner  seemed,  somehow,   to  center  about 

50 


SHE   TREATED   HIM    AS   IF   HE    WERE     SOME   DELICIOUS    OLD   JOKE 


THE   TURMOIL 

Mary  Vertrees  and  the  jocund  host  as  a  play  centers 
about  its  hero  and  heroine;  they  were  the  rubicund 
king  and  the  starry  princess  of  this  spectacle — they 
paid  court  to  each  other,  and  everybody  paid  court 
to  them.  Down  near  the  sugar  Pump  Works,  where 
Bibbs  sat,  there  was  audible  speculation  and  admira 
tion.  "  Wonder  who  that  lady  is — makin'  such  a 
hit  with  the  old  man."  "Must  be  some  heiress." 
"Heiress?  Golly,  I  guess  I  could  stand  it  to  marry 
rich,  then!" 

Edith  and  Sibyl  were  radiant:  at  first  they  had 
watched  Miss  Vertrees  with  an  almost  haggard  anxi 
ety,  wondering  what  disastrous  effect  Sheridan's 
pastoral  gaieties  —  and  other  things  —  would  have 
upon  her,  but  she  seemed  delighted  with  every 
thing,  and  with  him  most  of  all.  She  treated  him  as 
if  he  were  some  delicious,  foolish  old  joke  that  she 
understood  perfectly,  laughing  at  him  almost  vio 
lently  when  he  bragged — probably  his  first  experi 
ence  of  that  kind  in  his  life.  It  enchanted  him. 

As  he  proclaimed  to  the  table,  she  had  "a  way 
with  her."  She  had,  indeed,  as  Roscoe  Sheridan, 
upon  her  right,  discovered  just  after  the  feast  began. 
Since  his  marriage  three  years  before,  no  lady  had 
bestowed  upon  him  so  protracted  a  full  view  of 
brilliant  eyes;  and,  with  the  look,  his  lovely  neigh 
bor  said — and  it  was  her  first  speech  to  him — 

"I  hope  you're  very  susceptible,  Mr.  Sheridan!" 

Honest  Roscoe  was  taken  aback,  and,  "Why?" 
was  all  he  managed  to  say. 

She  repeated  the  look  deliberately,  which  was 
noted,  with  a  mystification  equal  to  his  own,  by  his 
sister  across  the  table.  No  one,  reflected  Edith, 

Si 


THE   TURMOIL 

could  imagine  Mary  Vertrees  the  sort  of  girl  who 
would  "really  flirt"  with  married  men — she  was 
obviously  the  "opposite  of  all  that."  Edith  defined 
her  as  a  "thoroughbred,"  a  "nice  girl";  and  the 
look  given  to  Roscoe  was  astounding.  Roscoe 's  wife 
saw  it,  too,  and  she  was  another  whom  it  puzzled — 
though  not  because  its  recipient  was  married. 

"Because!"  said  Mary  Vertrees,  replying  to  Ros 
coe's  monosyllable.  "And  also  because  we're  next- 
door  neighbors  at  table,  and  it's  dull  times  ahead 
for  both  of  us  if  we  don't  get  along." 

Roscoe  was  a  literal  young  man,  all  stocks  and 
bonds,  and  he  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  that 
when  a  man  married  he  "married  and  settled  down." 
It  was  "all  right,"  he  felt,  for  a  man  as  old  as  his 
father  to  pay  florid  compliments  to  as  pretty  a  girl 
as  this  Miss  Vertrees,  but  for  himself — "a  young 
married  man" — it  wouldn't  do;  it  wouldn't  even  be 
quite  moral.  He  knew  that  young  married  people 
might  have  friendships,  like  his  wife's  for  Lamhorn; 
but  Sibyl  and  Lamhorn  never  "flirted" — they  were 
always  very  matter-of-fact  with  each  other.  Roscoe 
would  have  been  troubled  if  Sibyl  had  ever  told 
Lamhorn  she  hoped  he  was  susceptible. 

"Yes — we're  neighbors,"  he  said,  awkwardly. 

"Next-door  neighbors  in  houses,  too,"  she  added. 

"No,  not  exactly.    I  live  across  the  street." 

"Why,  no!"  she  exclaimed,  and  seemed  startled. 
"Your  mother  told  me  this  afternoon  that  you  lived 
at  home." 

"Yes,  of  course  I  live  at  home.  I  built  that  new 
house  across  the  street." 

"But  you — "  She  paused,  confused,  and  then 

52 


THE   TURMOIL 

slowly  a  deep  color  came  into  her  cheek.  "But  I 
understood — " 

"No,"  he  said;  "my  wife  and  I  lived  with  the 
old  folks  the  first  year,  but  that's  all.  Edith  and 
Jim  live  with  them,  of  course." 

"I — I  see,"  she  said,  the  deep  color  still  deepening 
as  she  turned  from  him  and  saw,  written  upon  a  card 
before  the  gentleman  at  her  left,  the  name,  "Mr. 
James  Sheridan,  Jr."  And  from  that  moment  Ros- 
coe  had  little  enough  cause  for  wondering  what  he 
ought  to  reply  to  her  disturbing  coquetries. 

Mr.  James  Sheridan  had  been  anxiously  waiting 
for  the  dazzling  visitor  to  "get  through  with  old 
Roscoe,"  as  he  thought  of  it,  and  give  a  bachelor  a 
chance.  "Old  Roscoe"  was  the  younger,  but  he 
had  always  been  the  steady  wheel-horse  of  the  fam 
ily.  Jim  was  "steady"  enough,  but  was  considered 
livelier  than  Roscoe,  which  in  truth  is  not  saying 
much  for  Jim's  liveliness.  As  their  father  habitually 
boasted,  both  brothers  were  "capable,  hard-working 
young  business  men,"  and  the  principal  difference 
between  them  was  merely  that  which  resulted  from 
Jim's  being  still  a  bachelor.  Physically  they  were 
of  the  same  type:  dark  of  eyes  and  of  hair,  fresh- 
colored  and  thick-set,  and  though  Roscoe  was  several 
inches  taller  than  Jim,  neither  was  of  the  height, 
breadth,  or  depth  of  the  father.  Both  wore  young 
business  men's  mustaches,  and  either  could  have  sat 
for  the  tailor -shop  lithographs  of  young  business 
men  wearing  "rich  suitings  in  dark  mixtures." 

Jim,  approving  warmly  of  his  neighbor's  profile, 
perceived  her  access  of  color,  which  increased  his 
approbation.  "What's  that  old  Roscoe  saying  to 

S3 


THE   TURMOIL 

you,  Miss  Vertices?"  he  asked.  "These  young  mar 
ried  men  are  mighty  forward  nowadays,  but  you 
mustn't  let  'em  make  you  blush." 

"Am  I  blushing?"  she  said.  "Are  you  sure?" 
And  with  that  she  gave  him  ample  opportunity  to 
make  sure,  repeating  with  interest  the  look  wasted 
upon  Roscoe.  "I  think  you  must  be  mistaken," 
she  continued.  "I  think  it's  your  brother  who  is 
blushing.  I've  thrown  him  into  confusion." 

"How?" 

She  laughed,  and  then,  leaning  to  him  a  little, 
said  in  a  tone  as  confidential  as  she  could  make  it, 
under  cover  of  the  uproar,  "By  trying  to  begin  with 
him  a  courtship  I  meant  for  you!" 

This  might  well  be  a  style  new  to  Jim;  and  it 
was.  He  supposed  it  a  nonsensical  form  of  badi 
nage,  and  yet  it  took  his  breath.  He  realized  that 
he  wished  what  she  said  to  be  the  literal  truth,  and 
he  was  instantly  snared  by  that  realization. 

"By  George!"  he  said.  "I  guess  you're  the  kind 
of  girl  that  can  say  anything — yes,  and  get  away 
with  it,  too!" 

She  laughed  again — in  her  way,  so  that  he  could 
not  tell  whether  she  was  laughing  at  him  or  at 
herself  or  at  the  nonsense  she  was  talking;  and 
she  said: 

"But  you  see  I  don't  care  whether  I  get  away  with 
it  or  not.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  frankly  if  you  think 
I've  got  a  chance  to  get  away  with  you  ?" 

"More  like  if  you've  got  a  chance  to  get  away 
from  me!"  Jim  was  inspired  to  reply.  "Not  one  in 
the  world,  especially  after  beginning  by  making  fun 
of  me  like  that." 

54 


THE   TURMOIL 

"I  mightn't  be  so  much  in  fun  as  you  think,"  she 
said,  regarding  him  with  sudden  gravity. 

"Well,"  said  Jim,  in  simple  honesty,  "you're  a 
funny  girl!" 

Her  gravity  continued  an  instant  longer.  "I  may 
not  turn  out  to  be  funny  for  you." 

"So  long  as  you  turn  out  to  be  anything  at  all 
for  me,  I  expect  I  can  manage  to  be  satisfied."  And 
with  that,  to  his  own  surprise,  it  was  his  turn  to 
blush,  whereupon  she  laughed  again. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  plaintively,  not  wholly  lacking 
intuition,  "I  can  see  you're  the  sort  of  girl  that  would 
laugh  the  minute  you  see  a  man  really  means  any 
thing!" 

"'Laugh'!"  she  cried,  gaily.  "Why,  it  might  be 
a  matter  of  life  and  death !  But  if  you  want  tragedy, 
I'd  better  put  the  question  at  once,  considering  the 
mistake  I  made  with  your  brother." 

Jim  was  dazed.  She  seemed  to  be  playing  a  little 
game  of  mockery  and  nonsense  with  him,  but  he 
had  glimpses  of  a  flashing  danger  in  it;  he  was  but 
too  sensible  of  being  outclassed,  and  had  somewhere 
a  consciousness  that  he  could  never  quite  know  this 
giddy  and  alluring  lady,  no  matter  how  long  it  pleased 
her  to  play  with  him.  But  he  mightily  wanted  her 
to  keep  on  playing  with  him. 

"Put  what  question?"  he  said,  breathlessly. 

"As  you  are  a  new  neighbor  of  mine  and  of  my 
family,"  she  returned,  speaking  slowly  and  with  a 
cross-examiner's  severity,  "I  think  it  would  be  well 
for  me  to  know  at  once  whether  you  are  already 
walking  out  with  any  young  lady  or  not.  Mr. 
Sheridan,  think  well!  Are  you  spoken  for?" 

55 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Not  yet,"  he  gasped.    "Are  you?" 

' 'No!"  she  cried,  and  with  that  they  both  laughed 
again;  and  the  pastime  proceeded,  increasing  both 
in  its  gaiety  and  in  its  gravity. 

Observing  its  continuance,  Mr.  Robert  Lamhorn, 
opposite,  turned  from  a  lively  conversation  with  Edith 
and  remarked  covertly  to  Sibyl  that  Miss  Vertrees 
was  " starting  rather  picturesquely  with  Jim."  And 
he  added,  languidly,  "Do  you  suppose  she  would?" 

For  the  moment  Sibyl  gave  no  sign  of  havng 
heard  him,  but  seemed  interested  in  the  clasp  of  a 
long  "rope"  of  pearls,  a  loop  of  which  she  was 
allowing  to  swing  from  her  fingers,  resting  her  el 
bow  upon  the  table  and  following  with  her  eyes  the 
twinkle  of  diamonds  and  platinum  in  the  clasp  at 
the  end  of  the  loop.  She  wore  many  jewels.  She 
was  pretty,  but  hers  was  not  the  kind  of  prettiness 
to  be  loaded  with  too  sumptuous  accessories,  and 
jeweled  head-dresses  are  dangerous — they  may  em 
phasize  the  wrongness  of  the  wrong  wearer. 

"I  said  Miss  Vertrees  seems  to  be  starting  pretty 
strong  with  Jim,"  repeated  Mr.  Lamhorn. 

"I  heard  you."  There  was  a  latent  discontent 
always  somewhere  in  her  eyes,  no  matter  what  she 
threw  upon  the  surface  to  cover  it,  and  just  now 
she  did  not  care  to  cover  it;  she  looked  sullen. 
"Starting  any  stronger  than  you  did  with  Edith?" 
she  inquired. 

"Oh,  keep  the  peace!"  he  said,  crossly.  "That's 
off,  of  course." 

"You  haven't  been  making  her  see  it  this  evening 
— precisely,"  said  Sibyl,  looking  at  him  steadily. 
"You've  talked  to  her  for—" 

56 


THE   TURMOIL 

"For  Heaven's  sake/'  he  begged,  "keep  the 
'peace!" 

"Well,  what  have  you  just  been  doing?" 

"'S/t/"  he  said.    "Listen  to  your  father-in-law." 

Sheridan  was  booming  and  braying  louder  than 
ever,  the  orchestra  having  begun  to  play  "The 
Rosary,"  to  his  vast  content. 

"/  count  them  over,  la-la-tum-tee-dum,"  he  roared, 
beating  the  measures  with  his  fork.  "Each  hour  a 
pearl,  each  pearl  tee-dum-tum-dum —  What's  the 
matter  of  all  you  folks?  Why 'n't  you  sing  ?  Miss 
Vertrees,  I  bet  a  thousand  dollars  you  sing! 
Why'n't— " 

"Mr.  Sheridan,"  she  said,  turning  cheerfully  from 
the  ardent  Jim,  "you  don't  know  what  you  inter 
rupted!  Your  son  isn't  used  to  my  rough  ways,  and 
my  soldier's  wooing  frightens  him,  but  I  think  he 
was  about  to  say  something  important." 

"I'll  say  something  important  to  him  if  he 
doesn't!"  the  father  threatened,  more  delighted  with 
her  than  ever.  "By  gosh!  if  I  was  his  age — or  a 
widower  right  now — " 

"Oh,  wait!"  cried  Mary.  "If  they'd  only  make 
less  noise!  I  want  Mrs.  Sheridan  to  hear." 

"She'd  say  the  same,"  he  shouted.  "She'd  tell 
me  I  was  mighty  slow  if  I  couldn't  get  ahead  o' 
Jim.  Why,  when  I  was  his  age — " 

"You  must  listen  to  your  father,"  Mary  inter 
rupted,  turning  to  Jim,  who  had  grown  red  again. 
"He's  going  to  tell  us  how,  when  he  was  your  age, 
he  made  those  two  blades  of  grass  grow  out  of  a 
teacup — and  you  could  see  for  yourself  he  didn't 
get  them  out  of  his  sleeve!" 

57 


THE-TURMOIL 

At  that  Sheridan  pounded  the  table  till  it  jumped. 
"Look  here,  young  lady!"  he  roared.  "Some  o' 
these  days  I'm  either  goin'  to  slap  you — or  I'm 
goinj  to  kiss  you!" 

Edith  looked  aghast;  she  was  afraid  this  was 
indeed  "too  awful,"  but  Mary  Vertrees  burst  into 
ringing  laughter. 

1 '  Both !"  she  cried.  "  Both !  The  one  to  make  me 
forget  the  other!" 

"But  which — "  he  began,  and  then  suddenly  gave 
forth  such  stentorian  trumpetings  of  mirth  that  for 
once  the  whole  table  stopped  to  listen.  "Jim," 
he  roared,  "if  you  don't  propose  to  that  girl  to 
night  I'll  send  you  back  to  the  machine-shop  with 
Bibbs!" 

And  Bibbs — down  among  the  retainers  by  the 
sugar  Pump  Works,  and  watching  Mary  Vertrees 
as  a  ragged  boy  in  the  street  might  watch  a  rich 
little  girl  in  a  garden — Bibbs  heard.  He  heard — 
and  he  knew  what  his  father's  plans  were  now. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MRS.  VERTREES  "sat  up"  for  her  daughter, 
Mr.  Vertrees  having  retired  after  a  restless 
evening,  not  much  soothed  by  the  society  of  his 
Landseers.  Mary  had  taken  a  key,  insisting  that 
he  should  not  come  for  her  and  seeming  confident 
that  she  would  not  lack  for  escort;  nor  did  the 
sequel  prove  her  confidence  unwarranted.  But  Mrs. 
Vertrees  had  a  long  vigil  of  it. 

She  was  not  the  woman  to  make  herself  easy — 
no  servant  had  ever  seen  her  in  a  wrapper — and 
with  her  hair  and  her  dress  and  her  shoes  just  what 
they  had  been  when  she  returned  from  the  after 
noon's  call,  she  sat  through  the  slow  night  hours 
in  a  stiff  little  chair  under  the  gaslight  in  her  own 
room,  which  was  directly  over  the  "front  hall." 
There,  book  in  hand,  she  employed  the  time  in  her 
own  reminiscences,  though  it  was  her  belief  that 
she  was  reading  Madame  de  Remusat's. 

Her  thoughts  went  backward  into  her  life  and 
into  her  husband's;  and  the  deeper  into  the  past 
they  went,  the  brighter  the  pictures  they  brought 
her — and  there  is  tragedy.  Like  her  husband,  she 
thought  backward  because  she  did  not  dare  think 
forward  definitely.  What  thinking  forward  this 
troubled  couple  ventured  took  the  form  of  a  slender 
hope  which  neither  of  them  could  have  borne  to  hear 

59 


THE   TURMOIL 

put  in  words,  and  yet  they  had  talked  it  over,  day 
after  day,  from  the  very  hour  when  they  heard 
Sheridan  was  to  build  his  New  House  next  door. 
For — so  quickly  does  any  ideal  of  human  behavior 
become  an  antique — their  youth  was  of  the  innocent 
old  days,  so  dead!  of  "breeding"  and  " gentility," 
and  no  craft  had  been  more  straitly  trained  upon 
them  than  that  of  talking  about  things  without 
mentioning  them.  Herein  was  marked  the  most 
vital  difference  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vertrees  and 
their  big  new  neighbor.  Sheridan,  though  his  youth 
was  of  the  same  epoch,  knew  nothing  of  such  mat 
ters.  He  had  been  chopping  wood  for  the  morning 
fire  in  the  country  grocery  while  they  were  still 
dancing. 

It  was  after  one  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Vertrees 
heard  steps  and  the  delicate  clinking  of  the  key  in 
the  lock,  and  then,  with  the  opening  of  the  door, 
Mary's  laugh  and,  "Yes — if  you  aren't  afraid — 
to-morrow!" 

The  door  closed,  and  she  rushed  up-stairs,  bring 
ing  with  her  a  breath  of  cold  and  bracing  air  into 
her  mother's  room.  "Yes,"  she  said,  before  Mrs. 
Vertrees  could  speak,  "he  brought  me  home!" 

She  let  her  cloak  fall  upon  the  bed,  and,  drawing 
an  old  red-velvet  rocking-chair  forward,  sat  beside 
her  mother,  after  giving  her  a  light  pat  upon  the 
shoulder  and  a  hearty  kiss  upon  the  cheek. 

"Mamma!"  Mary  exclaimed,  when  Mrs.  Vertrees 
had  expressed  a  hope  that  she  had  enjoyed  the  eve 
ning  and  had  not  caught  cold.  "Why  don't  you 
ask  me?" 

This  inquiry  obviously  made  her  mother  uncom- 

60 


I'M    GOING    OUT    IN    HIS    CAR    WITH    HIM    TO-MORROW    AFTERNOON" 


THE   TURMOIL 

fortable.  ' ' I  don't—"  she  faltered.  "Ask  you  what, 
Mary?" 

"How  I  got  along  and  what  he's  like." 

"Mary!" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  distressing!"  said  Mary.  "And  I 
got  along  so  fast — "  She  broke  off  to  laugh;  con 
tinuing  then,  "But  that's  the  way  I  went  at  it,  of 
course.  We  are  in  a  hurry,  aren't  we?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Mrs.  Vertrees 
insisted,  shaking  her  head  plaintively. 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  "I'm  going  out  in  his  car 
with  him  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  to  the  theater 
the  next  night — but  I  stopped  it  there.  You  see, 
after  you  give  the  first  push,  you  must  leave  it  to 
them  while  you  pretend  to  run  away!" 

"My  dear,  I  don't  know  what  to — " 

"What  to  make  of  anything!"  Mary  finished  for 
her.  "So  that's  all  right!  Now  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it.  It  was  gorgeous  and  deafening  and  tee 
total.  We  could  have  lived  a  year  on  it.  I'm  not 
good  at  figures,  but  I  calculated  that  if  we  lived 
six  months  on  poor  old  Charlie  and  Ned  and  the 
station-wagon  and  the  Victoria,  we  could  manage 
at  least  twice  as  long  on  the  cost  of  the  'house- 
warming.'  I  think  the  orchids  alone  would  have 
lasted  us  a  couple  of  months.  There  they  were, 
before  me,  but  I  couldn't  steal  'em  and  sell  'em, 
and  so — well,  so  I  did  what  I  could!" 

She  leaned  back  and  laughed  reassuringly  to  her 
troubled  mother.  "It  seemed  to  be  a  success — 
what  I  could,"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  behind 
her  neck  and  stirring  the  rocker  to  motion  as  a 
rhythmic  accompaniment  to  her  narrative.  "The 

61 


THE  TURMOIL 

V  />• 

girl  Edith  and  her  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Roscoe  Sheri* 
dan,  were  too  anxious  about  the  effect  of  things  on 
me.  The  father's  worth  a  bushel  of  both  of  them, 
if  they  knew  it.  He's  what  he  is.  I  like  him." 
She  paused  reflectively,  continuing,  "Edith's  'inter 
ested*  in  that  Lamhorn  boy;  he's  good-looking  and 
not  stupid,  but  I  think  he's — "  She  interrupted 
herself  with  a  cheery  outcry:  "Oh!  I  mustn't  be 
calling  him  names!  If  he's  trying  to  make  Edith 
like  him,  I  ought  to  respect  him  as  a  colleague." 

"I  don't  understand  a  thing  you're  talking  about," 
Mrs.  Vertrees  complained. 

"All  the  better!  Well,  he's  a  bad  lot,  that  Lam- 
horn  boy;  everybody's  always  known  that,  but  the 
Sheridans  don't  know  the  everybodies  that  know. 
He  sat  between  Edith  and  Mrs.  Roscoe  Sheridan. 
She's  like  those  people  you  wondered  about  at  the 
theater,  the  last  time  we  went — dressed  in  ball 
gowns;  bound  to  show  their  clothes  and  jewels 
somewherel  She  flatters  the  father,  and  so  did  I, 
for  that  matter — but  not  that  way.  I  treated  him 
outrageously!" 

"Mary!" 

"That's  what  flattered  him.  After  dinner  he 
made  the  whole  regiment  of  us'  follow  him  all  over 
the  house,  while  he  lectured  like  a  guide  on  the 
Palatine.  He  gave  dimensions  and  costs,  and  the 
whole  b'ilin'  of  'em  listened  as  if  they  thought  he 
intended  to  make  them  a  present  of  the  house. 
What  he  was  proudest  of  was  the  plumbing  and  that 
Bay  of  Naples  panorama  in  the  hall.  He  made  us 
look  at  all  the  plumbing — bath-rooms  and  every 
where  else — and  then  he  made  us  look  at  the  Bay 

62 


THE  TURMOIL 

of  Naples.  He  said  it  was  a  hundred  and  eleven  feet 
long,  but  I  think  it's  more.  And  he  led  us  all  into 
the  ready-made  library  to  see  a  poem  Edith  had 
taken  a  prize  with  at  school.  They'd  had  it  printed 
in  gold  letters  and  framed  in  mother-of-pearl.  But 
the  poem  itself  was  rather  simple  and  wistful  and 
nice — he  read  it  to  us,  though  Edith  tried  to  stop 
him.  She  was  modest  about  it,  and  said  she'd 
never  written  anything  else.  And  then,  after  a 
while,  Mrs.  Roscoe  Sheridan  asked  me  to  come 
across  the  street  to  her  house  with  them — her  hus 
band  and  Edith  and  Mr.  Lamhorn  and  Jim  Sheri 
dan—" 

Mrs.  Vertrees  was  shocked.  "'Jim'!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "Mary,  please — " 

"Of  course,"  said  Mary.  "I'll  make  it  as  easy 
for  you  as  I  can,  mamma.  Mr.  James  Sheridan, 
Junior.  We  went  over  there,  and  Mrs.  Roscoe 
explained  that  'the  men  were  all  dying  for  a  drink,' 
though  I  noticed  that  Mr.  Lamhorn  was  the  only 
one  near  death's  door  on  that  account.  Edith  and 
Mrs.  Roscoe  said  they  knew  I'd  been  bored  at  the 
dinner.  They  were  objectionably  apologetic  about 
it,  and  they  seemed  to  think  now  we  were  going  to 
have  a  'good  time'  to  make  up  for  it.  But  I  hadn't 
been  bored  at  the  dinner,  I'd  been  amused;  and  the 
'good  time'  at  Mrs.  Roscoe's  was  horribly,  horribly 
stupid." 

"But,  Mary,"  her  mother  began,  "is — is — "  And 
she  seemed  unable  to  complete  the  question. 

"Never  mind,  mamma,  I'll  say  it.  Is  Mr.  James 
Sheridan,  Junior,  stupid?  I'm  sure  he's  not  at  all 
stupid  about  business.  Otherwise —  Oh,  what 
5  63 


THE   TURMOIL 

right  have  I  to  be  calling  people  'stupid'  because 
they're  not  exactly  mj  kind?  On  the  big  dinner- 
table  they  had  enormous  icing  models  of  the  Sheri 
dan  Building — " 

"Oh  no!"  Mrs.  Vertrees  cried.     "Surely  not!'1 

"Yes,  and  two  other  things  of  that  kind — I  don't 
know  what.  But,  after  all,  I  wondered  if  they  were 
so  bad.  If  I'd  been  at  a  dinner  at  a  palace  in  Italy, 
and  a  relief  or  inscription  on  one  of  the  old  silver 
pieces  had  referred  to  some  great  deed  or  achieve 
ment  of  the  family,  I  shouldn't  have  felt  superior; 
I'd  have  thought  it  picturesque  and  stately — I'd 
have  been  impressed.  And  what's  the  real  difference  ? 
The  icing  is  temporary,  and  that's  much  more 
modest,  isn't  it?  And  why  is  it  vulgar  to  feel  im 
portant  more  on  account  of  something  you've  done 
yourself  than  because  of  something  one  of  your  an 
cestors  did?  Besides,  if  we  go  back  a  few  genera 
tions,  we've  all  got  such  hundreds  of  ancestors  it 
seems  idiotic  to  go  picking  out  one  or  two  to  be 
proud  of  ourselves  about.  Well,  then,  mamma,  I 
managed  not  to  feel  superior  to  Mr.  James  Sheridan, 
Junior,  because  he  didn't  see  anything  out  of  place 
in  the  Sheridan  Building  in  sugar." 

Mrs.  Vertrees's  expression  had  lost  none  of  its 
anxiety  pending  the  conclusion  of  this  lively  bit  of 
analysis,  and  she  shook  her  head  gravely.  "My 
dear,  dear  child,"  she  said,  "it  seems  to  me —  It 
looks —  I'm  afraid — " 

"Say  as  much  of  it  as  you  can,  mamma,"  said 
Mary,  encouragingly.  "I  can  get  it,  if  you'll  just 
give  me  one  key-word." 

"Everything  you  say,"  Mrs.  Vertrees  began,  tim* 


THE   TURMOIL 

idly,  "seems  to  have  the  air  of  —   It  is  as  if  you  were 
seeking  to  —  to  make  yourself  —  " 

"Oh,  I  see!  You  mean  I  sound  as  if  I  were  trying 
to  force  myself  to  like  him." 

"Not  exactly,  Mary.  That  wasn't  quite  what  I 
meant/'  said  Mrs.  Vertrees,  speaking  direct  untruth 
with  perfect  unconsciousness.  "But  you  said  that  — 
that  you  found  the  latter  part  of  the  evening  at 
young  Mrs.  Sheridan's  unentertaining  —  " 

"And  as  Mr.  James  Sheridan  was  there,  and  I 
saw  more  of  him  than  at  dinner,  and  had  a  horribly 
stupid  time  in  spite  of  that,  you  think  I  —  "  And 
then  it  was  Mary  who  left  the  deduction  unfinished. 

Mrs.  Vertrees  nodded;  and  though  both  the 
mother  and  the  daughter  understood,  Mary  felt  it 
better  to  make  the  understanding  definite. 

4  *  Well,"  she  asked,  gravely,  "is  there  anything  else 
I  can  do?  You  and  papa  don't  want  me  to  do  any 
thing  that  distresses  me,  and  so,  as  this  is  the 
only  thing  to  be  done,  it  seems  it's  up  to  me  not 
to  let  it  distress  me.  That's  all  there  is  about  it. 
isn't  it?" 

But  nothing  must  distress  you!"  the  mother  cried. 
That's  what  I  say!"  said  Mary,  cheerfully. 
And  so  it  doesn't.  It's  all  right."  She  rose  and 
took  her  cloak  over  her  arm,  as  if  to  go  to  her  own 
room.  But  on  the  way  to  the  door  she  stopped, 
and  stood  leaning  against  the  foot  of  the  bed,  con 
templating  a  threadbare  rug  at  her  feet.  "Mother, 
you've  told  me  a  thousand  times  that  it  doesn't 
really  matter  whom  a  girl  marries." 

"No,  no!"  Mrs.  Vertrees  protested.  "I  never 
said  such  a  —  " 


" 
" 


THE  TURMOIL 

"No,  not  in  words f  I  mean  what  you  meant. 

It's  true,  isn't  it,  that  marriage  really  is   'not  a 

bed  of  roses,  but  a  field  of  battle'?    To  get  right 

down  to  it,  a  girl  could  fight  it  out  with  anybody, 

couldn't  she?    One  man  as  well  as  another?" 

"Oh,  my  dear!    I'm  sure  your  father  and  I — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mary,  indulgently.     "I  don't 

mean  you  and  papa.    But  isn't  it  propinquity  that 

makes  marriages?     So  many  people  say  so,  there 

must  be  something  in  it." 

"Mary,  I  can't  bear  for  you  to  talk  like  that." 
And  Mrs.  Vertrees  lifted  pleading  eyes  to  her 
daughter-— eyes  that  begged  to  be  spared.  "It 
sounds — almost  reckless!" 

Mary  caught  the  appeal,  came  to  her,  and  kissed 
her  gaily.  "Never  fret,  dear!  I'm  not  likely  to  do 
anything  I  don't  want  to— I've  always  been  too 
thorough-going  a  little  pig!  And  if  it  is  propinquity 
that  does  our  choosing  for  us,  well,  at  least  no  girl 
in  the  world  could  ask  for  more  of  that!  How  could 
there  be  any  more  propinquity  than  the  very  house 
next  door?" 

She  gave  her  mother  a  final  kiss  and  went  gaily 
all  the  way  to  the  door  this  time,  pausing  for  her 
postscript  with  her  hand  on  the  knob.  "Oh,  the 
one  that  caught  me  looking  in  the  window,  mamma, 
the  youngest  one — " 

"Did  he  speak  of  it?"  Mrs.  Vertrees  asked,  ap 
prehensively. 

"No.  He  didn't  speak  at  all,  that  I  saw,  to  any 
one.  I  didn't  meet  him.  But  he  isn't  insane,  I'm 
sure;  or  if  he  is,  he  has  long  intervals  when  he's 
not.  Mr.  James  Sheridan  mentioned  that  he  lived 

66 


THE  TURMOIL 

at  home  when  he  was  'well  enough*;  and  it  may  be 
he's  only  an  invalid.  He  looks  dreadfully  ill,  but 
he  has  pleasant  eyes,  and  it  struck  me  that  if — if 
one  were  in  the  Sheridan  family" — she  laughed  a 
little  ruefully — "he  might  be  interesting  to  talk  to 
sometimes,  when  there  was  too  much  stocks  and 
bonds.  I  didn't  see  him  after  dinner." 

"There  must  be  something  wrong  with  him," 
said  Mrs.  Vertrees.  "They'd  have  introduced  him 
if  there  weren't." 

"I  don't  know.  He's  been  ill  so  much  and  away 
so  much — sometimes  people  like  that  just  don't 
seem  to  'count'  in  a  family.  His  father  spoke  of 
sending  him  back  to  a  machine-shop  of  some  sort; 
I  suppose  he  meant  when  the  poor  thing  gets  better. 
I  glanced  at  him  just  then,  when  Mr.  Sheridan 
mentioned  him,  and  he  happened  to  be  looking 
straight  at  me;  and  he  was  pathetic-looking  enough 
before  that,  but  the  most  tragic  change  came  over 
him.  He  seemed  just  to  die,  right  there  at  the 
table!" 

"You  mean  when  his  father  spoke  of  sending 
him  to  the  shop  place?" 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  Sheridan  must  be  very  unfeeling." 

"No,"  said  Mary,  thoughtfully,  "I  don't  think 
he  is;  but  he  might  be  uncomprehending,  and  cer 
tainly  he's  the  kind  of  man  to  do  anything  he  once 
sets  out  to  do.  But  I  wish  I  hadn't  been  looking 
at  that  poor  boy  just  then!  I'm  afraid  I'll  keep 
remembering — ' ' 

"I  wouldn't."  Mrs.  Vertrees  smiled  faintly,  and 
in  her  smile  there  was  the  remotest  ghost  of  a  gen-, 

67 


THE   TURMOIL 

teel  roguishness.  "I'd  keep  my  mind  on  pleasanter 
things,  Mary." 

Mary  laughed  and  nodded.  "Yes,  indeed!  Plenty 
pleasant  enough,  and  probably,  if  all  were  known, 
too  good — even  for  me!" 

And  when  she  had  gone  Mrs.  Vertrees  drew  a 
long  breath,  as  if  a  burden  were  off  her  mind,  and, 
smiling,  began  to  undress  in  a  gentle  reverie. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ODITH,  glancing  casually  into  the  "ready-made" 
C  library,  stopped  abruptly,  seeing  Bibbs  there 
alone.  He  was  standing  before  the  pearl-framed 
and  golden-lettered  poem,  musingly  inspecting  it. 
He  read  it: 

FUGITIVE 

I  will  forget  the  things  that  sting: 

The  lashing  look,  the  barbed  word. 
I  know  the  very  hands  that  fling 

The  stones  at  me  had  never  stirred 
To  anger  but  for  their  own  scars. 

They've  suffered  so,  that's  why  they  strike. 
I'll  keep  my  heart  among  the  stars 

Where  none  shall  hunt  it  out.    Oh,  like 
These  wounded  ones  I  must  not  be, 

For,  wounded,  I  might  strike  in  turn! 
So,  none  shall  hurt  me.    Far  and  free 

Where  my  heart  flies  no  one  shall  learn. 

"Bibbs!"  Edith's  voice  was  angry,  and  her  color 
deepened  suddenly  as  she  came  into  the  room, 
preceded  by  a  scent  of  violets  much  more  powerful 
than  that  warranted  by  the  actual  bunch  of  them 
upon  the  lapel  of  her  coat. 

Bibbs  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  wagged  it  sol 
emnly,  seeming  depressed  by  the  poem.  "Pretty 
young,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "There  must  have  been 

69 


THE  TURMOIL 

r^ 

something  about  your  looks  that  got  the 
Edith;  I  can't  believe  the  poem  did  it." 

She  glanced  hurriedly  over  her  shoulder  and 
spoke  sharply,  but  in  a  low  voice:  "I  don't  think 
it's  very  nice  of  you  to  bring  it  up  at  all,  Bibbs. 
I'd  like  a  chance  to  forget  the  whole  silly  business. 
I  didn't  want  them  to  frame  it,  and  I  wish  to  good 
ness  papa'd  quit  talking  about  it;  but  here,  that 
night,  after  the  dinner,  didn't  he  go  and  read  it 
aloud  to  the  whole  crowd  of  'em!  And  then  they 
all  wanted  to  know  what  other  poems  I'd  written, 
and  why  I  didn't  keep  it  up  and  write  some  more, 
and  if  I  didn't,  why  didn't  I,  and  why  this  and  why 
that,  till  I  thought  I'd  die  of  shame!" 

"You  could  tell  'em  you  had  writer's  cramp," 
Bibbs  suggested. 

"I  couldn't  tell  'em  anything!  I  just  choke  with 
mortification  every  time  anybody  speaks  of  the 
thing." 

Bibbs  looked  grieved.  "The  poem  isn't  that  bad, 
Edith.  You  see,  you  were  only  seventeen  when 
you  wrote  it." 

"Oh,  hush  up!"  she  snapped.  "I  wish  it  had 
burnt  my  fingers  the  first  time  I  touched  it.  Then 
I  might  have  had  sense  enough  to  leave  it  where  it 
was.  I  had  no  business  to  take  it,  and  I've  been 
ashamed — " 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  comfortingly.  "It  was  the 
very  most  flattering  thing  ever  happened  to  me. 
It  was  almost  my  last  flight  before  I  went  to  the 
machine-shop,  and  it's  pleasant  to  think  somebody 
liked  it  enough  to — " 

"But  I  don't  like  it!"  she  exclaimed.     "I  don't 

70 


THE  TURMOIL 

even  understand  it — and  papa  made  so  much  fuss 
over  its  getting  the  prize,  I  just  hate  it!  The  truth 
is  I  never  dreamed  it  'd  get  the  prize." 

"Maybe  they  expected  father  to  endow  the 
school,"  Bibbs  murmured. 

"Well,  I  had  to  have  something  to  turn  in,  and 
I  couldn't  write  a  line!  I  hate  poetry,  anyhow;  and 
Bobby  Lamhorn's  always  teasing  me  about  how  I 
'keep  my  heart  among  the  stars.'  He  makes  it 
seem  such  a  mushy  kind  of  thing,  the  way  he  says 
it.  I  hate  it!" 

"You'll  have  to  live  it  down,  Edith.  Perhaps 
abroad  and  under  another  name  you  might  find — " 

"Oh,  hush  up!    I'll  hire  some  one  to  steal  it  and 

burn  it  the  first  chance  I  get."     She  turned  away 

petulantly,  moving  to  the  door.    "I'd  like  to  think 

I  could  hope  to  hear  the  last  of  it  before  I  die!" 

'"Edith!"  he  called,  as  she  went  into  the  hall. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I  want  to  ask  you:  Do  I  really  look  better,  or 
have  you  just  got  used  to  me?" 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  she  said,  coming 
back  as  far  as  the  threshold. 

"When  I  first  came  you  couldn't  look  at  me," 
Bibbs  explained,  in  his  impersonal  way.  "But  I've 
noticed  you  look  at  me  lately.  I  wondered  if  I'd — " 

"It's  because  you  look  so  much  better,"  she  told 
him,  cheerfully.  "This  month  you've  been  here's 
done  you  no  end  of  good.  It's  the  change." 

"Yes,  that's  what  they  said  at  the  sanitarium— 
the  change." 

"You  look  worse  than  'most  anybody  /  ever 
saw,"  said  Edith,  with  supreme  candor.  "But  I 


THE   TURMOIL 

don't  know  much  about  it.  I've  never  seen  a  corpse 
in  my  life,  and  I've  never  even  seen  anybody  that 
was  terribly  sick,  so  you  mustn't  judge  by  me. 
I  only  know  you  do  look  better,  I'm  glad  to  say. 
But  you're  right  about  my  not  being  able  to  look 
at  you  at  first.  You  had  a  kind  of  whiteness  that — 
Well,  you're  almost  as  thin,  I  suppose,  but  you've 
got  more  just  ordinarily  pale;  not  that  ghastly 
look.  Anybody  could  look  at  you  now,  Bibbs,  and 
not — not  get — " 

"Sick?" 

"Well— almost  that!"  she  laughed.  "And  you're 
getting  a  better  color  every  day,  Bibbs;  you  really 
are.  You're  really  getting  along  splendidly." 

"I — I'm  afraid  so,"  he  said,  ruefully. 

"'Afraid  so'!  Well,  if  you  aren't  the  queerest! 
I  suppose  you  mean  father  might  send  you  back 
to  the  machine-shop  if  you  get  well  enough.  I 
heard  him  say  something  about  it  the  night  of 
the — "  The  jingle  of  a  distant  Joell  interrupted 
her,  and  she  glanced  at  her  watch.  "Bobby  Lam- 
horn!  I'm  going  to  motor  him  out  to  look  at  a 
place  in  the  country.  Afternoon,  Bibbs!" 

When  she  had  gone,  Bibbs  mooned  pessimistically 
from  shelf  to  shelf,  his  eye  wandering  among  the 
titles  of  the  books.  The  library  consisted  almost 
entirely  of  handsome  "uniform  editions":  Irving, 
Poe,  Cooper,  Goldsmith,  Scott,  Byron,  Burns,  Long 
fellow,  Tennyson,  Hume,  Gibbon,  Prescott,  Thack 
eray,  Dickens,  De  Musset,  Balzac,  Gautier,  Flaubert, 
Goethe,  Schiller,  Dante,  and  Tasso.  There  were 
shelves  and  shelves  of  encyclopedias,  of  anthologies, 
of  "famous  classics,"  of  "Oriental  masterpieces," 

72 


THE   TURMOIL 

of  "masterpieces  of  oratory,"  and  more  shelves  of 
"selected  libraries"  of  "literature,"  of  "the  drama," 
and  of  "modern  science."  They  made  an  effective 
decoration  for  the  room,  all  these  big,  expensive 
books,  with  a  glossy  binding  here  and  there  twinkling 
a  reflection  of  the  flames  that  crackled  in  the  splendid 
Gothic  fireplace;  but  Bibbs  had  an  impression  that 
the  bookseller  who  selected  them  considered  them  a 
relief,  and  that  white- jacket  considered  them  a  bur 
den  of  dust,  and  that  nobody  else  considered  them 
at  all.  Himself,  he  disturbed  not  one. 

There  came  a  chime  of  bells  from  a  clock  in  an 
other  part  of  the  house,  and  white-jacket  appeared 
beamingly  in  the  doorway,  bearing  furs.  "Aw- 
ready,  Mist'  Bibbs,"  he  announced.  "You*  ma 
say  wrap  up  wawm  f  you'  ride,  an'  she  cain* 
go  with  you  to-day,  an'  not  f'git  go  see  you*  pa 
at  fo'  'clock.  Aw  ready,  suh." 

He  equipped  Bibbs  for  the  daily  drive  Dr.  Gur- 
ney  had  commanded;  and  in  the  manner  of  a  mas 
ter  of  ceremonies  unctuously  led  the  way.  In  the 
hall  they  passed  the  Moor,  and  Bibbs  paused  before 
it  while  white- jacket  opened  the  door  with  a  flourish 
and  waved  condescendingly  to  the  chauffeur  in  the 
car  which  stood  waiting  in  the  driveway. 

"It  seems  to  me  I  asked  you  what  you  thought 
about  this  'statue'  when  I  first  came  home,  George," 
said  Bibbs,  thoughtfully.  "What  did  you  tell  me?" 

"Yessuh!"  George  chuckled,  perfectly  under 
standing  that  for  some  unknown  reason  Bibbs  en 
joyed  hearing  him  repeat  his  opinion  of  the  Moor. 
"You  ast  me  when  you  firs'  come  home,  an*  you 
ast  me  nex'  day,  an*  mighty  near  ev'y  day  all  time 

73 


THE   TURMOIL 

you  been  here;  an*  las'  Sunday  you  ast  me  twicet." 
He  shook  his  head  solemnly.  "Look  to  me  mus* 
be  somep'm  mighty  lamidal  'bout  'at  statue!" 

"Mighty  what?" 

"Mighty  lamida//"  George  burst  out  laughing. 
"What  do  'at  word  mean,  Mist'  Bibbs?" 

* '  It's  new  to  me,  George.    Where  did  you  hear  it  ?" 

"I  nev'  did  hear  it!"  said  George.  "I  uz  dess 
sittin*  thinkum  to  myse'f  an'  she  pop  in  my  head — 
'lamida/,'  dess  like  'at!  An'  she  soun'  so  good, 
seem  like  she  gotta  mean  somep'm!" 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  I  believe  she  does  mean 
something.  Why,  yes — " 

"  Do  she  ?"  cried  George.    ' '  What  she  mean  ?' ' 

"It's  exactly  the  word  for  the  statue,"  said  Bibbs, 
with  conviction,  as  he  climbed  into  the  car.  "It's 
a  \Bxmdal  statue." 

"Hiyi!"  George  exulted.  "Man!  Man!  Listen! 
Well,  suh,  she  mighty  lamiJaZ  statue,  but  lamidfoZ 
statue  heap  o'  trouble  to  dus'!" 

"I  expect  she  is!"  said  Bibbs,  as  the  engine  began 
to  churn;  and  a  moment  later  he  was  swept  from 
sight. 

George  turned  to  Mist'  Jackson,  who  had  been 
listening  benevolently  in  the  hallway.  "Same  he 
aw- ways  say,  Mist'  Jackson — 'I  expec'  she  is!'  Ev'y 
day  he  try  t'  git  me  talk  'bout  'at  lamidal  statue, 
an'  aw- ways,  las'  thing  he  say,  'I  expec'  she  is!' 
You  know,  Mist'  Jackson,  if  he  git  well,  'at  young 
man  go'  be  pride  o'  the  family,  Mist'  Jackson.  Yes- 
suh,  right  now  I  pick  'im  fo'  firs'  money!" 

"Look  out  with  all  'at  money,  George!"  Jackson 
warned  the  enthusiast.  "White  folks  'n  'is  house 

74 


THE  TURMOIL 

know  'im  heap  longer  'n  you.  You  the  on'y  man 
bettin'  on  'im!" 

"I  risk  it!"  cried  George,  merrily.  "I  put  her 
all  on  now — ev'y  cent!  'At  boy's  go'  be  flower  o' 
the  flock!" 

This  singular  prophecy,  founded  somewhat  reck 
lessly  upon  gratitude  for  the  meaning  of  "lamida/," 
differed  radically  from  another  prediction  concerning 
Bibbs,  set  forth  for  the  benefit  of  a  fair  auditor  some 
twenty  minutes  later.  Jim  Sheridan,  skirting  the 
edges  of  the  town  with  Mary  Vertrees  beside  him, 
in  his  own  swift  machine,  encountered  the  invalid 
upon  the  highroad.  The  two  cars  were  going  in 
opposite  directions,  and  the  occupants  of  Jim's  had 
only  a  swaying  glimpse  of  Bibbs  sitting  alone  on 
the  back  seat  —  his  white  face  startlingly  white 
against  cap  and  collar  of  black  fur — but  he  flashed 
into  recognition  as  Mary  bowed  to  him. 

Jim  waved  his  left  hand  carelessly.  "It's  Bibbs, 
taking  his  constitutional,"  he  explained. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mary.  "I  bowed  to  him, 
too,  though  I've  never  met  him.  In  fact,  I've  only 
seen  him  once — no,  twice.  I  hope  he  won't  think 
I'm  very  bold,  bowing  to  him." 

"I  doubt  if  he  noticed  it,"  said  honest  Jim. 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  cried. 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"I'm  almost  sure  people  notice  it  when  I  bow  to 
them." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  said  Jim.  "Of  course  they  would 
ordinarily,  but  Bibbs  is  funny." 

"Is  he?  How?"  she  asked.  "He  strikes  me  as 
anything  but  funny." 


THE   TURMOIL 

4  *  Well,  I'm  his  brother,"  Jim  said,  deprecatingly, 
"but  7  don't  know  what  he's  like,  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I've  never  felt  exactly  like  I  was  his  brother, 
the  way  I  do  Roscoe.  Bibbs  never  did  seem  more 
than  half  alive  to  me.  Of  course  Roscoe  and  I  are 
older,  and  when  we  were  boys  we  were  too  big  to 
play  with  him,  but  he  never  played  anyway,  with 
boys  his  own  age.  He'd  rather  just  sit  in  the  house 
and  mope  around  by  himself.  Nobody  could  ever 
get  him  to  do  anything;  you  can't  get  him  to  do 
anything  now.  He  never  had  any  life  in  him;  and 
honestly,  if  he  is  my  brother,  I  must  say  I  believe 
Bibbs  Sheridan  is  the  laziest  man  God  ever  made! 
Father  put  him  in  the  machine-shop  over  at  the 
Pump  Works — best  thing  in  the  world  for  him — 
and  he  was  just  plain  no  account.  It  made  him 
sick!  If  he'd  had  the  right  kind  of  energy — the 
kind  father's  got,  for  instance,  or  Roscoe,  either — 
why,  it  wouldn't  made  him  sick.  And  suppose  it 
was  either  of  them — yes,  or  me,  either — do  you 
think  any  of  us  would  have  stopped  if  we  were  sick? 
Not  much!  I  hate  to  say  it,  but  Bibbs  Sheridan  '11 
never  amount  to  anything  as  long  as  he  lives." 

Mary  looked  thoughtful.  ' '  Is  there  any  particular 
reason  why  he  should?"  she  asked. 

"Good  gracious!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  don't 
mean  that,  do  you?  Don't  you  believe  in  a  man's 
knowing  how  to  earn  his  salt,  no  matter  how  much 
money  his  father's  got?  Hasn't  the  business  of  this 
world  got  to  be  carried  on  by  everybody  in  it? 
Are  we  going  to  lay  back  on  what  we've  got  and 
see  other  fellows  get  ahead  of  us?  If  we've  got  big 
things  already,  isn't  it  every  man's  business  to  go 

76 


THE   TURMOIL 

ahead  and  make  'em  bigger?  Isn't  it  his  duty? 
Don't  we  always  want  to  get  bigger  and  bigger?" 

"Ye-es — I  don't  know.  But  I  feel  rather  sorry 
for  your  brother.  He  looked  so  lonely — and  sick." 

"He's  gettin'  better  every  day,"  Jim  said.  "Dr. 
Gurney  says  so.  There's  nothing  much  the  mat 
ter  with  him,  really  —  it's  nine-tenths  imaginary. 
'Nerves'!  People  that  are  willing  to  be  busy  don't 
have  nervous  diseases,  because  they  don't  have  time 
to  imagine  'em." 

"You  mean  his  trouble  is  really  mental?" 

"Oh,  he's  not  a  lunatic,"  said  Jim.  "He's  just 
queer.  Sometimes  he'll  say  something  right  bright, 
but  half  the  time  what  he  says  is  'way  off  the  sub 
ject,  or  else  there  isn't  any  sense  to  it  at  all.  For 
instance,  the  other  day  I  heard  him  talkin'  to  one  of 
the  darkies  in  the  hall.  The  darky  asked  him  what 
time  he  wanted  the  car  for  his  drive,  and  anybody 
else  in  the  world  would  have  just  said  what  time 
they  did  want  it,  and  that  would  have  been  all 
there  was  to  it;  but  here's  what  Bibbs  says,  and 
I  heard  him  with  my  own  ears.  'What  time  do 
I  want  the  car?'  he  says.  'Well,  now,  that  depends 
— that  depends,'  he  says.  He  talks  slow  like  that, 
you  know.  'Ill  tell  you  what  time  I  want  the 
car,  George/  he  says,  'if  you'll  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  this  statue!'  That's  exactly  his  words! 
Asked  the  darky  what  he  thought  of  that  Arab 
Edith  and  mother  bought  for  the  hall!" 

Mary  pondered  upon  this.  "He  might  have  been 
in  fun,  perhaps,"  she  suggested. 

"Askin'  a  darky  what  he  thought  of  a  piece  of 
statuary — of  a  work  of  art!  Where  on  earth  would 

77 


THE   TURMOIL 

be  the  fun  of  that?    No,  you're  just  kind-hearted — 
and  that's  the  way  you  ought  to  be,  of  course — " 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Sheridan!"  she  laughed. 

"See  here!"  he  cried.  "Isn't  there  any  way  for 
us  to  get  over  this  Mister  and  Miss  thing?  A 
month's  got  thirty-one  days  in  it;  I've  managed 
to  be  with  you  a  part  of  pretty  near  all  the  thirty- 
one,  and  I  think  you  know  how  I  feel  by  this  time — " 

She  looked  panic-stricken  immediately.  ' '  Oh  no, ' ' 
she  protested,  quickly.  "No,  I  don't,  and — " 

"Yes,  you  do,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  shook  a 
little.  '  *  You  couldn't  help  knowing. ' ' 

"But  I  do!"  she  denied,  hurriedly.  "I  do  help 
knowing.  I  mean —  Oh,  wait!" 

"What  for?  You  do  know  how  I  feel,  and  you — 
well,  you've  certainly  wanted  me  to  feel  that  way — 
or  else  pretended — " 

"Now,  now!"  she  lamented.  "You're  spoiling 
such  a  cheerful  afternoon!" 

"'Spoiling'  it!"  He  slowed  down  the  car  and 
turned  his  face  to  her  squarely.  "See  here,  Miss 
Vertrees,  haven't  you — " 

"Stop!  Stop  the  car  a  minute."  And  when  he 
had  complied  she  faced  him  as  squarely  as  he  evi 
dently  desired  her  to  face  him.  "Listen.  I  don't 
want  you  to  go  on,  to-day." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  mean  it's  just  a  whim?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  repeated.  Her  voice  was  low 
and  troubled  and  honest,  and  she  kept  her  clear 
eyes  upon  his. 

"Will  you  tell  me  something?" 

78 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Almost  anything." 

"Have  you  ever  told  any  man  you  loved  him?" 

And  at  that,  though  she  laughed,  she  looked  a 
little  contemptuous.  "No,"  she  said.  "And  I 
don't  think  I  ever  shall  tell  any  man  that — or  ever 
know  what  it  means.  I'm  in  earnest,  Mr.  Sheridan." , 

"Then  you — you've  just  been  flirting  with  me!" 
Poor  Jim  looked  both  furious  and  crestfallen. 

"Not  one  bit!"  she  cried.  "Not  one  word!  Not 
one  syllable!  I've  meant  every  single  thing!" 

"I  don't—" 

"Of  course  you  don't!"  she  said.  "Now,  Mr. 
Sheridan,  I  want  you  to  start  the  car.  Now!  Thank 
you.  Slowly,  till  I  finish  what  I  want  to  say.  I 
have  not  flirted  with  you.  I  have  deliberately 
courted  you.  One  thing  more,  and  then  I  want 
you  to  take  me  straight  home,  talking  about  the 
weather  all  the  way.  I  said  that  I  do  not  believe  I 
shall  ever  'care*  for  any  man,  and  that  is  true.  I 
doubt  the  existence  of  the  kind  of  'caring'  we  hear 
about  in  poems  and  plays  and  novels.  I  think  it 
must  be  just  a  kind  of  emotional  talk — most  of  it. 
At  all  events,  I  don't  feel  it.  Now,  we  can  go  faster, 
please." 

"Just  where  does  that  let  me  out?"  he  demanded. 
"How  does  that  excuse  you  for — " 

"It  isn't  an  excuse,"  she  said,  gently,  and  gave 
him  one  final  look,  wholly  desolate.  "I  haven't 
said  I  should  never  marry." 

"What?"  Jim  gasped. 

She  inclined  her  head  in  a  broken  sort  of  acquies 
cence,  very  humble,  unfathomably  sorrowful. 

"I  promise  nothing,"  she  said,  faintly. 
6  79 


THE   TURMOIL 

"You  needn't !"  shouted  Jim,  radiant  and  exultant. 
"You  needn't!  By  George!  I  know  you're  square; 
that's  enough  for  me!  You  wait  and  promise  when 
ever  you're  ready!" 

"Don't  forget  what  I  asked,"  she  begged  him. 

"Talk  about  the  weather?  I  will!  God  6Sss  the 
old  weather!"  cried  the  happy  Jim. 


CHAPTER  IX 

npHROUGH  the  open  country  Bibbs  was  borne 
1  flying  between  brown  fields  and  sun -flecked 
groves  of  gray  trees,  to  breathe  the  rushing,  clean  air 
beneath  a  glorious  sky  —  that  sky  so  despised  in 
the  city,  and  so  maltreated  there,  that  from  early 
October  to  mid-May  it  was  impossible  for  men  to 
remember  that  blue  is  the  rightful  color  overhead. 

Upon  each  of  Bibbs's  cheeks  there  was  a  hint 
of  something  almost  resembling  a  pinkishness;  not 
actual  color,  but  undeniably  its  phantom.  How 
largely  this  apparition  may  have  been  the  work  of 
the  wind  upon  his  face  it  is  difficult  to  calculate, 
for  beyond  a  doubt  it  was  partly  the  result  of  a 
lady's  bowing  to  him  upon  no  more  formal  intro 
duction  than  the  circumstance  of  his  having  caught 
her  looking  into  his  window  a  month  before.  She 
had  bowed  definitely;  she  had  bowed  charmingly. 
And  it  seemed  to  Bibbs  that  she  must  have  meant 
to  convey  her  forgiveness. 

There  had  been  something  in  her  recognition,  of 
him  unfamiliar  to  his  experience,  and  he  rode  the 
warmer  for  it.  Nor  did  he  lack  the  impression  that 
he  would  long  remember  her  as  he  had  just  seen 
her:  her  veil  tumultuously  blowing  back,  her  face 
glowing  in  the  wind — and  that  look  of  gay  friendli 
ness  tossed  to  him  like  a  fresh  rose  in  carnival. 

81 


THE   TURMOIL 

r 

By  and  by,  upon  a  rising  ground,  the  driver  halted 
the  car,  then  backed  and  tacked,  and  sent  it  for 
ward  again  with  its  nose  to  the  south  and  the  smoke. 
Far  before  him  Bibbs  saw  the  great  smudge  upon 
the  horizon,  that  nest  of  cloud  in  which  the  city 
strove  and  panted  like  an  engine  shrouded  in  its 
own  steam.  But  to  Bibbs,  who  had  now  to  go  to 
the  very  heart  of  it,  for  a  commanded  interview 
with  his  father,  the  distant  cloud  was  like  an  im 
placable  genius  issuing  thunderously  in  smoke  from 
his  enchanted  bottle,  and  irresistibly  drawing  Bibbs 
nearer  and  nearer. 

They  passed  from  the  farm  lands,  and  came,  in 
the  amber  light  of  November  late  afternoon,  to  the 
farthermost  outskirts  of  the  city;  and  here  the  sky 
shimmered  upon  the  verge  of  change  from  blue  to 
gray;  the  smoke  did  not  visibly  permeate  the  air, 
but  it  was  there,  nevertheless — impalpable,  thin,  no 
more  than  the  dust  of  smoke.  And  then,  as  the 
car  drove  on,  the  chimneys  and  stacks  of  factories 
came  swimming  up  into  view  like  miles  of  steamers 
advancing  abreast,  every  funnel  with  its  vast  plume, 
savage  and  black,  sweeping  to  the  horizon,  drip 
ping  wealth  and  dirt  and  suffocation  over  league  on 
league  already  rich  and  vile  with  grime. 

The  sky  had  become  only  a  dingy  thickening  of 
the  soiled  air;  and  a  roar  and  clangor  of  metals  beat 
deafeningly  on  Bibbs's  ears.  And  now  the  car 
passed  two  great  blocks  of  long  brick  buildings, 
hideous  in  all  ways  possible  to  make  them  hideous; 
doorways  showing  dark  one  moment  and  lurid  the 
next  with  the  leap  of  some  virulent  interior  flame, 
revealing  blackened  giants,  half  naked,  in  passionate 

82 


THE   TURMOIL 

action,  struggling  with  formless  things  in  the  hot 
illumination.  And  big  as  these  shops  were,  they 
were  growing  bigger,  spreading  over  a  third  block, 
where  two  new  structures  were  mushrooming  to 
completion  in  some  hasty  cement  process  of  a  sta 
bility  not  over-reassuring.  Bibbs  pulled  the  rug 
closer  about  him,  and  not  even  the  phantom  of 
color  was  left  upon  his  cheeks  as  he  passed  this 
place,  for  he  knew  it  too  well.  Across  the  face  of 
one  of  the  buildings  there  was  an  enormous  sign: 
"Sheridan  Automatic  Pump  Co.,  Inc." 

Thence  they  went  through  streets  of  wooden 
houses,  all  grimed,  and  adding  their  own  grime 
from  many  a  sooty  chimney;  flimsy  wooden  houses 
of  a  thousand  flimsy  whimsies  in  the  fashioning, 
built  on  narrow  lots  and  nudging  one  another 
crossly,  shutting  out  the  stingy  sunlight  from  one 
another;  bad  neighbors  who  would  destroy  one  an 
other  root  and  branch  some  night  when  the  right 
wind  blew.  They  were  only  waiting  for  that  wind 
and  a  cigarette,  and  then  they  would  all  be  gone 
together — a  pinch  of  incense  burned  upon  the  tripod 
of  the  god. 

Along  these  streets  there  were  skinny  shade- trees, 
and  here  and  there  a  forest  elm  or  walnut  had  been 
left ;  but  these  were  dying.  Some  people  said  it  was 
the  scale;  some  said  it  was  the  smoke;  and  some 
were  sure  that  asphalt  and  "  improving "  the  streets 
did  it ;  but  Bigness  was  in  too  Big  a  hurry  to  bother 
much  about  trees.  He  had  telegraph-poles  and 
telephone-poles  and  electric-light  poles  and  trolley- 
poles  by  the  thousand  to  take  their  places.  So  he 
let  the  trees  die  and  put  up  his  poles.  They  were 

83 


THE   TURMOIL 

hideous,  but  nobody  minded  that;  and  sometimes 
the  wires  fell  and  killed  people — but  not  often 
enough  to  matter  at  all. 

Thence  onward  the  car  bore  Bibbs  through  the 
older  parts  of  the  town  where  the  few  solid  old 
houses  not  already  demolished  were  in  transition: 
some,  with  their  fronts  torn  away,  were  being  made 
into  segments  of  apartment-buildings;  others  had 
gone  uproariously  into  trade,  brazenly  putting  forth 
''show-windows"  on  their  first  floors,  seeming  to 
mean  it  for  a  joke;  one  or  two  with  unaltered 
facades  peeped  humorously  over  the  tops  of  tempo 
rary  office  buildings  of  one  story  erected-  in  the  old 
front  yards.  Altogether,  the  town  here  was  like  a 
boarding-house  hash  the  Sunday  after  Thanksgiving ; 
the  old  ingredients  were  discernible. 

This  was  the  fringe  of  Bigness's  own  sanctuary, 
and  now  Bibbs  reached  the  roaring  holy  of  holies 
itself.  The  car  must  stop  at  every  crossing  while 
the  dark-garbed  crowds,  enveloped  in  maelstroms 
of  dust,  hurried  before  it.  Magnificent  new  build 
ings,  already  dingy,  loomed  hundreds  of  feet  above 
him;  newer  ones,  more  magnificent,  were  rising 
beside  them,  rising  higher;  old  buildings  were  com 
ing  down ;  middle-aged  buildings  were  coming  down ; 
the  streets  were  laid  open  to  their  entrails  and  men 
worked  underground  between  palisades,  and  over 
head  in  metal  cobwebs  like  spiders  in  the  sky. 
Trolley-cars  and  long  interurban  cars,  built  to  split 
the  wind  like  torpedo-boats,  clanged  and  shrieked 
their  way  round  swarming  corners;  motor-cars  of 
every  kind  and  shape  known  to  man  babbled  fright 
ful  warnings  and  frantic  demands;  hospital  ambu- 

84 


THE   TURMOIL 

lances  clamored  wildly  for  passage;  steam- whistles 
signaled  the  swinging  of  titanic  tentacle  and  claw; 
riveters  rattled  like  machine-guns;  the  ground  shook 
to  the  thunder  of  gigantic  trucks;  and  the  con 
glomerate  sound  of  it  all  was  the  sound  of  earth 
quake  playing  accompaniments  for  battle  and  sud 
den  death.  On  one  of  the  new  steel  buildings  no 
work  was  being  done  that  afternoon.  The  building 
had  killed  a  man  in  the  morning — and  the  steel-work 
ers  always  stop  for  the  day  when  that  "happens." 

And  in  the  hurrying  crowds,  swirling  and  sifting 
through  the  brobdingnagian  camp  of  iron  and  steel, 
one  saw  the  camp-followers  and  the  pagan  women — 
there  would  be  work  to-day  and  dancing  to-night. 
For  the  Puritan's  dry  voice  is  but  the  crackling  of 
a  leaf  underfoot  in  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  coming 
of  the  new  Egypt. 

Bibbs  was  on  time.  He  knew  it  must  be  "to  the 
minute"  or  his  father  would  consider  it  an  out 
rage;  and  the  big  chronometer  in  Sheridan's  office 
marked  four  precisely  when  Bibbs  walked  in.  Coin- 
cidentally  with  his  entrance  five  people  who  had 
been  at  work  in  the  office,  under  Sheridan's  direc 
tion,  walked  out.  They  departed  upon  no  visible 
or  audible  suggestion,  and  with  a  promptness  that 
seemed  ominous  to  the  new-comer.  As  the  massive 
door  clicked  softly  behind  the  elderly  stenographer, 
the  last  of  the  procession,  Bibbs  had  a  feeling  that 
they  all  understood  that  he  was  a  failure  as  a  great 
man's  son,  a  disappointment,  the  "queer  one"  of 
the  family,  and  that  he  had  been  summoned  to 
judgment — a  well-founded  impression,  for  that  was 
exactly  what  they  understood. 

8s 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Sit  down,"  said  Sheridan. 

It  is  frequently  an  advantage  for  deans,  school 
masters,  and  worried  fathers  to  place  delinquents  in 
the  sitting-posture.  Bibbs  sat. 

Sheridan,  standing,  gazed  enigmatically  upon  his 
son  for  a  period  of  silence,  then  walked  slowly  to  a 
window  and  stood  looking  out  of  it,  his  big  hands, 
loosely  hooked  together  by  the  thumbs,  behind  his 
back.  They  were  soiled,  as  were  all  other  hands 
down-town,  except  such  as  might  be  still  damp  from 
a  basin. 

"Well,  Bibbs,"  he  said  at  last,  not  altering  his 
attitude,  "do  you  know  what  I'm  goin*  to  do  with 
you?" 

Bibbs,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  fixed  his  eyes 
contemplatively  upon  the  ceiling.  "I  heard  you 
tell  Jim,"  he  began,  in  his  slow  way.  "You  said 
you'd  send  him  to  the  machine-shop  with  me  if  he 
didn't  propose  to  Miss  Vertrees.  So  I  suppose  that 
must  be  your  plan  for  me.  But — " 

"But  what?"  said  Sheridan,  irritably,  as  the  son 
paused. 

"Isn't  there  somebody  you'd  let  me  propose  to?" 

That  brought  his  father  sharply  round  to  face 
him.  "You  beat  the  devil!  Bibbs,  what  is  the 
matter  with  you?  Why  can't  you  be  like  anybody 
else?" 

"Liver,  maybe,"  said  Bibbs,  gently. 

"Boh!  Even  ole  Doc  Gurney  says  there's  nothin' 
wrong  with  you  organically.  No.  You're  a  dream 
er,  Bibbs;  that's  what's  the  matter,  and  that's  all 
the  matter.  Oh,  not  one  o'  these  big  dreamers  that 
put  through  the  big  deals!  No,  sir  I  You're  the 

86 


TKTE   TURMOIL 

kind  o'  dreamer  that  just  sets  out  on  the  back  fence 
and  thinks  about  how  much  trouble  there  must  be 
in  the  world!  That  ain't  the  kind  that  builds  the 
bridges,  Bibbs;  it's  the  kind  that  borrows  fifteen 
cents  from  his  wife's  uncle's  brother-in-law  to  get 
ten  cent's  worth  o'  plug  tobacco  and  a  nickel's 
worth  o'  quinine!" 

He  put  the  finishing  touch  to  this  etching  with 
a  snort,  and  turned  again  to  the  window. 

' '  Look  out  there !"  he  bade  his  son.  '  *  Look  out  o' 
that  window!  Look  at  the  life  and  energy  down 
there!  I  should  think  any  young  man's  blood  would 
tingle  to  get  into  it  and  be  part  of  it.  Look  at  the 
big  things  young  men  are  doin'  in  this  town!"  He 
swung  about,  coming  to  the  mahogany  desk  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  "Look  at  what  I  was  doin'  at 
your  age!  Look  at  what  your  own  brothers  are 
doin'!  Look  at  Roscoe!  Yes,  and  look  at  Jim!  I 
made  Jim  president  o'  the  Sheridan  Realty  Company 
last  New- Year's,  with  charge  of  every  inch  o'  ground 
and  every  brick  and  every  shingle  and  stick  o' 
wood  we  own;  and  it's  an  example  to  any  young 
man — or  ole  man,  either — the  way  he  took  ahold 
of  it.  Last  July  we  found  out  we  wanted  two  more 
big  warehouses  at  the  Pump  Works — wanted  'em 
quick.  Contractors  said  it  couldn't  be  done;  said 
nine  or  ten  months  at  the  soonest;  couldn't  see  it 
any  other  way.  What  'd  Jim  do?  Took  the  con 
tract  himself;  found  a  fellow  with  a  new  cement 
and  concrete  process;  kept  men  on  the  job  night 
and  day,  and  stayed  on  it  night  and  day  himself — 
and,  by  George!  we  begin  to  use  them  warehouses 
next  week!  Four  months  and  a  half,  and  every 

87 


THE   TURMOIL 

inch  fireproof!  I  tell  you  Jim's  one  o'  these  fellers 
that  make  miracles  happen!  Now,  I  don't  say 
every  young  man  can  be  like  Jim,  because  there's 
mighty  few  got  his  abilit}^,  but  every  young  man 
can  go  in  and  do  his  share.  This  town  is  God's 
own  country,  and  there's  opportunity  for  anybody 
with  a  pound  of  energy  and  an  ounce  o'  gumption. 
I  tell  you  these  young  business  men  I  watch  just 
do  my  heart  good!  They  don't  set  around  on  the 
back  fence — no,  sir!  They  take  enough  exercise  to 
keep  their  health;  and  they  go  to  a  baseball  game 
once  or  twice  a  week  in  summer,  maybe,  and  they're 
raisin'  nice  families,  with  sons  to  take  their  places 
sometime  and  carry  on  the  work — because  the  work's 
got  to  go  on!  They're  puttin'  their  life-blood  into 
it,  I  tell  you,  and  that's  why  we're  gettin'  bigger 
every  minute,  and  why  they're  gettin'  bigger,  and 
why  it's  all  goin'  to  keep  on  gettin'  bigger!" 

He  slapped  the  desk  resoundingly  with  his  open 
palm,  and  then,  observing  that  Bibbs  remained  in 
the  same  impassive  attitude,  with  his  eyes  still 
fixed  upon  the  ceiling  in  a  contemplation  somewhat 
plaintive,  Sheridan  was  impelled  to  groan.  "Oh, 
Lord!"  he  said.  "This  is  the  way  you  always  were. 
I  don't  believe  you  understand  a  darn  word  I  been 
sayin'!  You  don't  look  as  if  you  did.  By  George! 
it's  discouraging!" 

"I  don't  understand  about  getting — about  getting 
bigger,"  said  Bibbs,  bringing  his  gaze  down  to  look 
at  his  father  placatively.  "I  don't  see  just  why — " 

"What?"  Sheridan  leaned  forward,  resting  his 
hands  upon  the  desk  and  staring  across  it  incredu 
lously  at  his  son. 

88 


THE   TURMOIL 

"I  don't  understand — exactly — what  you  want  it 
all  bigger  for?" 

"Great  God!"  shouted  Sheridan,  and  struck  the 
desk  a  blow  with  his  clenched  fist.  "A  son  of  mine 
asks  me  that !  You  go  out  and  ask  the  poorest  day- 
laborer  you  can  find!  Ask  him  that  question — " 

"I  did  once,"  Bibbs  interrupted;  "when  I  was 
in  the  machine-shop.  I — " 

"Wha'd  he  say?" 

"He  said,  'Oh,  hell!*"  answered  Bibbs,  mildly. 

"Yes,  I  reckon  he  would!"  Sheridan  swung 
away  from  the  desk.  "I  reckon  he  certainly  would! 
And  I  got  plenty  sympathy  with  him  right  now, 
myself!" 

"It's  the  same  answer,  then?"  Bibbs's  voice  was 
serious,  almost  tremulous. 

"Damnation!"  Sheridan  roared.  "Did  you  ever 
hear  the  word  Prosperity,  you  ninny?  Did  you 
ever  hear  the  word  Ambition?  Did  you  ever  hear 
the  word  Progress?" 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair  after  the  outburst, 
his  big  chest  surging,  his  throat  tumultuous  with 
guttural  incoherences.  ' '  Now  then, ' '  he  said,  huskily, 
when  the  anguish  had  somewhat  abated,  "what  do 
you  want  to  do?" 

"Sir?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  do,  I  said." 

Taken  by  surprise,  Bibbs  stammered.  "What- 
what  do-I — what — " 

"If  I'd  let  you  do  exactly  what  you  had  the 
whim  for,  what  would  you  do?" 

Bibbs  looked  startled ;  then  timidity  overwhelmed 
him — a  profound  shyness.  He  bent  his  head  and 

89 


THE   TURMOIL 

fixed  his  lowered  eyes  upon  the  toe  of  his  shoe, 
which  he  moved  to  and  fro  upon  the  rug,  like  a 
culprit  called  to  the  desk  in  school. 

' '  What  would  you  do  ?    Loaf  ?" 

"No,  sir."  Bibbs's  voice  was  almost  inaudible, 
and  what  little  sound  it  made  was  unquestionably 
a  guilty  sound.  "I  suppose  I'd — I'd — " 

"Well?" 

"I  suppose  I'd  try  to — to  write." 

"Write  what?" 

"Nothing  important — just  poems  and  essays,  per 
haps." 

"That  all?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  see,"  said  his  father,  breathing  quickly  with 
the  restraint  he  was  putting  upon  himself.  "That 
is,  you  want  to  write,  but  you  don't  want  to  write 
anything  of  any  account." 

"You  think—" 

Sheridan  got  up  again.  "I  take  my  hat  off  to 
the  man  that  can  write  a  good  ad,"  he  said,  em 
phatically.  "The  best  writin'  talent  in  this  country 
is  right  spang  in  the  ad  business  to-day.  You 
buy  a  magazine  for  good  writin' — look  on  the  back 
of  it!  Let  me  tell  you  I  pay  money  for  that  kind 
o'  writin'.  Maybe  you  think  it's  easy.  Just  try 
it!  I've  tried  it,  and  I  can't  do  it.  I  tell  you  an 
ad's  got  to  be  written  so  it  makes  people  do  the 
hardest  thing  in  this  world  to  get  'em  to  do:  it's 
got  to  make  'em  give  up  their  money!  You  talk 
about  'poems  and  essays.'  I  tell  you  when  it  comes 
to  the  actual  skill  o'  puttin'  words  together  so  as 
to  make  things  happen,  R.  T.  Bloss,  right  here  in 

90 


THE   TURMOIL 

this  city,  knows  more  in  a  minute  than  George 
Waldo  Emerson  ever  knew  in  his  whole  life!" 

1  'You — you  may  be — "  Bibbs  said,  indistinctly, 
the  last  word  smothered  in  a  cough. 

"Of  course  I'm  right!  And  if  it  ain't  just  like 
you  to  want  to  take  up  with  the  most  out-o'-date 
kind  o'  writin'  there  is!  *  Poems  and  essays'!  My 
Lord,  Bibbs,  that's  women's  work!  You  can't 
pick  up  a  newspaper  without  havin'  to  see  where 
Mrs.  Rumskididle  read  a  paper  on  'Jane  Eyre,'  or 
'East  Lynne,'  at  the  God-Knows-What  Club.  And 
'poetry'!  Why,  look  at  Edith!  I  expect  that  poem 
o'  hers  would  set  a  pretty  high-water  mark  for  you, 
young  man,  and  it's  the  only  one  she's  ever  managed 
to  write  in  her  whole  life!  When  I  wanted  her  to 
go  on  and  write  some  more  she  said  it  took  too 
much  time.  Said  it  took  months  and  months.  And 
Edith's  a  smart  girl;  she's  got  more  energy  in  her 
little  finger  than  you  ever  give  me  a  chance  to  see 
in  your  whole  body,  Bibbs.  Now  look  at  the  facts : 
say  she  could  turn  out  four  or  five  poems  a  year 
and  you  could  turn  out  maybe  two.  That  medal 
she  got  was  worth  about  fifteen  dollars,  so  there's 
your  income — thirty  dollars  a  year!  That's  a  fine 
success  to  make  of  your  life!  I'm  not  sayin'  a 
word  against  poetry.  I  wouldn't  take  ten  thousand 
dollars  right  now  for  that  poem  of  Edith's;  and 
poetry's  all  right  enough  in  its  place — but  you  leave 
it  to  the  girls.  A  man's  got  to  do  a  man's  work  in 
this  world." 

He  seated  himself  in  a  chair  at  his  son's  side 
and,  leaning  over,  tapped  Bibbs  confidentially  on 
the  knee.  "This  city's  got  the  greatest  future  in 

91 


THE   TURMOIL 

America,  and  if  my  sons  behave  right  by  me  and 
by  themselves  they're  goin'  to  have  a  mighty  fair 
share  of  it — a  mighty  fair  share.  I  love  this  town. 
It's  God's  own  footstool,  and  it's  made  money  for 
me  every  day  right  along,  I  don't  know  how  many 
years.  I  love  it  like  I  do  my  own  business,  and  I'd 
fight  for  it  as  quick  as  I'd  fight  for  my  own  family. 
It's  a  beautiful  town.  Look  at  our  wholesale  dis 
trict;  look  at  any  district  you  want  to;  look  at  the 
park  system  we're  puttin*  through,  and  the  boule 
vards  and  the  public  statuary.  And  she  grows. 
God!  how  she  grows!'*  He  had  become  intensely 
grave;  he  spoke  with  solemnity.  "Now,  Bibbs,  I 
can't  take  any  of  it — nor  any  gold  nor  silver  nor 
buildings  nor  bonds — away  with  me  in  my  shroud 
when  I  have  to  go.  But  I  want  to  leave  my  share 
in  it  to  my  boys.  I've  worked  for  it;  I've  been  a 
builder  and  a  maker;  and  two  blades  of  grass  have 
grown  where  one  grew  before,  whenever  I  laid  my 
hand  on  the  ground  and  willed  'em  to  grow.  I've 
built  big,  and  I  want  the  buildin*  to  go  on.  And 
when  my  last  hour  comes  I  want  to  know  that  my 
boys  are  ready  to  take  charge;  that  they're  fit  to 
take  charge  and  go  on  with  it.  Bibbs,  when  that 
hour  comes  I  want  to  know  that  my  boys  are  big 
men,  ready  and  fit  to  take  hold  of  big  things.  Bibbs, 
when  I'm  up  above  I  want  to  know  that  the  big 
share  I've  made  mine,  here  below,  is  growin*  bigger 
and  bigger  in  the  charge  of  my  boys." 

He  leaned  back,  deeply  moved.  "There!"  he  said, 
huskily.  "I've  never  spoken  more  what  was  in 
my  heart  in  my  life.  I  do  it  because  I  want  you  to 
understand — and  not  think  me  a  mean  father,  I 

92 


THE   TURMOIL 

never  had  to  talk  that  way  to  Jim  and  Roscoe. 
They  understood  without  any  talk,  Bibbs." 

"I  see/'  said  Bibbs.  "At  least  I  think  I  do. 
But—" 

"Wait  a  minute!"  Sheridan  raised  his  hand. 
"If  you  see  the  least  bit  in  the  world,  then  you  un 
derstand  how  it  feels  to  me  to  have  my  son  set  here 
and  talk  about  'poems  and  essays'  and  such-like 
fooleries.  And  you  must  understand,  too,  what  it 
meant  to  start  one  o*  my  boys  and  have  him  come 
back  on  me  the  way  you  did,  and  have  to  be  sent 
to  a  sanitarium  because  he  couldn't  stand  work. 
Now,  let's  get  right  down  to  it,  Bibbs.  I've  had  a 
whole  lot  o'  talk  with  ole  Doc  Gurney  about  you, 
one  time  another,  and  I  reckon  I  understand  your 
case  just  about  as  well  as  he  does,  anyway!  Now 
here,  I'll  be  frank  with  you.  I  started  you  in  harder 
than  what  I  did  the  other  boys,  and  that  was  for 
your  own  good,  because  I  saw  you  needed  to  be 
shook  up  more'n  they  did.  You  were  always  kind 
of  moody  and  mopish — and  you  needed  work  that  'd 
keep  you  on  the  jump.  Now,  why  did  it  make 
you  sick  instead  of  brace  you  up  and  make  a  man 
of  you  the  way  it  ought  of  done?  I  pinned  ole 
Gurney  down  to  it.  I  says,  'Look  here,  ain't  it 
really  because  he  just  plain  hated  it?'  'Yes,'  he 
says,  'that's  it.  If  he'd  enjoyed  it,  it  wouldn't 
'a'  hurt  him.  He  loathes  it,  and  that  affects  his 
nervous  system.  The  more  he  tries  it,  the  more  he 
hates  it;  and  the  more  he  hates  it,  the  more  injury 
it  does  him.'  That  ain't  quite  his  words,  but  it's 
what  he  meant.  And  that's  about  the  way  it  is." 

"Yes,"  said  Bibbs,  "that's  about  the  way  it  is." 

93 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Well,  then,  I  reckon  it's  up  to  me  not  only  to 
make  you  do  it,  but  to  make  you  like  it!" 

Bibbs  shivered.  And  he  turned  upon  his  father 
a  look  that  was  almost  ghostly.  "I  can't/'  he  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "I  can't." 

4 *  Can't  go  back  to  the  shop?" 

4 'No.    Can't  like  it.    I  can't." 

Sheridan  jumped  up,  his  patience  gone.  To  his 
own  view,  he  had  reasoned  exhaustively,  had  ex 
plained  fully  and  had  pleaded  more  than  a  father 
should,  only  to  be  met  in  the  end  with  the  unreason 
ing  and  mysterious  stubbornness  which  had  been 
Bibbs's  baffling  characteristic  from  childhood.  "By 
George,  you  will!"  he  cried.  "You'll  go  back  there 
and  you'll  like  it!  Gurney  says  it  won't  hurt  you 
if  you  like  it,  and  he  says  it  '11  kill  you  if  you  go 
back  and  hate  it;  so  it  looks  as  if  it  was  about  up 
to  you  not  to  hate  it.  Well,  Gurney's  a  fool!  Hatin' 
work  doesn't  kill  anybody;  and  this  isn't  goin' 
to  kill  you,  whether  you  hate  it  or  not.  I've  never 
made  a  mistake  in  a  serious  matter  in  my  life,  and 
it  wasn't  a  mistake  my  sendin'  you  there  in  the  first 
place.  And  I'm  goin'  to  prove  it — I'm  goin'  to 
send  you  back  there  and  vindicate  my  judgment. 
Gurney  says  it's  all  'mental  attitude.'  Well,  you're 
goin'  to  learn  the  right  one!  He  says  in  a  couple 
more  months  this  fool  thing  that's  been  the  matter 
with  you  '11  be  disappeared  completely  and  you'll 
be  back  in  as  good  or  better  condition  than  you 
were  before  you  ever  went  into  the  shop.  And 
right  then  is  when  you  begin  over — right  in  that 
same  shop!  Nobody  can  call  me  a  hard  man  or  a 
mean  father.  I  do  the  best  I  can  for  my  chuldern, 

94 


THE   TURMOIL 

and  I  take  the  full  responsibility  for  bringin'  my 
sons  up  to  be  men.  Now,  so  far,  I've  failed  with  you. 
But  I'm  not  goin'  to  keep  on  failin*.  I  never  tackled 
a  job  yet  I  didn't  put  through,  and  I'm  not  goin'  to 
begin  with  my  own  son.  I'm  goin'  to  make  a  man 
of  you.  By  God!  I  am!" 

Bibbs  rose  and  went  slowly  to  the  door,  where 
he  turned.  "You  say  you  give  me  a  couple  of 
months?"  he  said. 

Sheridan  pushed  a  bell-button  on  his  desk.  "Gur- 
ney  said  two  months  more  would  put  you  back 
where  you  were.  You  go  home  and  begin  to  get 
yourself  in  the  right  'mental  attitude'  before  those 
two  months  are  up!  Good-byl" 

"Good-by,  sir,"  said  Bibbs,  meekly. 


CHAPTER  X 

BIBBS'S  room,  that  neat  apartment  for  tran 
sients  to  which  the  "lamidal"  George  had 
shown  him  upon  his  return,  still  bore  the  appearance 
of  temporary  quarters,  possibly  because  Bibbs  had 
no  clear  conception  of  himself  as  a  permanent  in 
cumbent.  However,  he  had  set  upon  the  mantel 
piece  the  two  photographs  that  he  owned:  one,  a 
"group"  twenty  years  old — his  father  and  mother, 
with  Jim  and  Roscoe  as  boys  —  and  the  other  a 
" cabinet'*  of  Edith  at  sixteen.  And  upon  a  table 
were  the  books  he  had  taken  from  his  trunk:  Sartor 
Resartus,  Virginibus  Puerisque,  Huckleberry  Finn, 
and  Afterwhiles.  There  were  some  other  books  in 
the  trunk — a  large  one,  which  remained  unremoved 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  adding  to  the  general  impres 
sion  of  transiency.  It  contained  nearly  all  the  pos 
sessions  as  well  as  the  secret  life  of  Bibbs  Sheridan, 
and  Bibbs  sat  beside  it,  the  day  after  his  interview 
with  his  father,  raking  over  a  small  collection  of 
manuscripts  in  the  top  tray.  Some  of  these  he 
glanced  through  dubiously,  finding  little  comfort  in 
them;  but  one  made  him  smile.  Then  he  shook 
his  head  ruefully  indeed,  and  ruefully  began  to 
read  it.  It  was  written  on  paper  stamped  "Hood 
Sanitarium,"  and  it  bore  the  title,  "Leisure/* 

96 


THE   TURMOIL 

A  man  may  keep  a  quiet  heart  at  seventy  miles  an  hour, 
but  not  if  he  is  running  the  train.  Nor  is  the  habit  of  contem 
plation  a  useful  quality  in  the  stoker  of  a  foundry  furnace;  it 
will  not  be  found  to  recommend  him  to  the  approbation  of  his 
superiors.  For  a  profession  adapted  solely  to  the  pursuit  of 
happiness  in  thinking,  I  would  choose  that  of  an  invalid:  his 
money  is  time  and  he  may  spend  it  on  Olympus.  It  will  not 
suffice  to  be  an  amateur  invalid.  To  my  way  of  thinking,  the 
perfect  practitioner  must  be  to  all  outward  purposes  already 
dead  if  he  is  to  begin  the  perfect  enjoyment  of  life.  His  serenity 
must  not  be  disturbed  by  rumors  of  recovery;  he  must  lie  serene 
in  his  long  chair  in  the  sunshine.  The  world  must  be  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wall,  and  the  wall  must  be  so  thick  and  so 
high  that  he  cannot  hear  the  roaring  of  the  furnace  fires  and  the 
screaming  of  the  whistles.  Peace — 

Having  read  so  far  as  the  word  "peace,"  Bibbs 
suffered  an  interruption  interesting  as  a  coincidence 
of  contrast.  High  voices  sounded  in  the  hall  just 
outside  his  door;  and  it  became  evident  that  a 
woman's  quarrel  was  in  progress,  the  parties  to  it 
having  begun  it  in  Edith's  room,  and  continuing 
it  vehemently  as  they  came  out  into  the  hall. 

"Yes,  you  better  go  home!"  Bibbs  heard  his  sister 
vociferating,  shrilly.  "You  better  go  home  and 
keep  your  mind  a  little  more  on  your  husband!" 

"Edie,  Edie!"  he  heard  his  mother  remonstrating, 
as  peacemaker. 

"You  see  here!"  This  was  Sibyl,  and  her  voice 
was  both  acrid  and  tremulous.  "Don't  you  talk  to 
me  that  way!  I  came  here  to  tell  Mother  Sheridan 
what  I'd  heard,  and  to  let  her  tell  Father  Sheridan 
if  she  thought  she  ought  to,  and  I  did  it  for  your 
own  good." 

"Yes,  you  did!"  And  Edith's  gibing  laughter 
tooted  loudly.  "Yes,  you  did!  You  didn't  have 

97 


THE  TURMOIL 

any  other  reason!  Oh  no!  You  don't  want  to 
break  it  up  between  Bobby  Lamhorn  and  me 
because — " 

"Edie,  Edie!    Now,  now!" 

"Oh,  hush  up,  mamma!  I'd  like  to  know,  then, 
if  she  says  her  new  friends  tell  her  he's  got  such  a 
reputation  that  he  oughtn't  to  come  here,  what 
about  his  not  going  to  her  house.  How — " 

"I've  explained  that  to  Mother  Sheridan."  Sibyl's 
voice  indicated  that  she  was  descending  the  stairs. 
"Married  people  are  not  the  same.  Some  things 
that  should  be  shielded  from  a  young  girl — " 

This  seemed  to  have  no  very  soothing  effect  upon 
Edith.  ' ' ' Shielded  from  a  young  girl* ! ' '  she  shrilled. 
"You  seem  pretty  willing  to  be  the  shield!  You 
look  out  Roscoe  doesn't  notice  what  kind  of  a  shield 
you  are!" 

Sibyl's  answer  was  inaudible,  but  Mrs.  Sheri 
dan's  flurried  attempts  at  pacification  were  renewed. 
"Now,  Edie,  Edie,  she  means  it  for  your  good,  and 
you'd  oughtn't  to — " 

"Oh,  hush  up,  mamma,  and  let  me  alone?  If 
you  dare  tell  papa — " 

"Now,  now!  I'm  not  going  to  tell  him  to-day, 
and  maybe — " 

"You've  got  to  promise  never  to  tell  him!"  the 
girl  cried,  passionately. 

"Well,  we'll  see.  You  just  come  back  in  your 
own  room,  and  we'll — " 

"No!  I  won't  'talk  it  over'!  Stop  pulling  me! 
Let  me  alone!"  And  Edith,  flinging  herself  violently 
upon  Bibbs's  door,  jerked  it  open,  swung  round  it 
into  the  room,  slammed  the  door  behind  her,  and 

98 


THE  TURMOIL 

C 

threw  herself,  face  down,  upon  the  bed  in  such  a  riot 
of  emotion  that  she  had  no  perception  of  Bibbs's 
presence  in  the  room.  Gasping  and  sobbing  in  a 
passion  of  tears,  she  beat  the  coverlet  and  pillows 
with  her  clenched  fists.  *  *  Sneak !' '  she  babbled  aloud. 
"Sneak!  Snake-in-the-grass!  Cat!" 

Bibbs  saw  that  she  did  not  know  he  was  there, 
and  he  went  softly  toward  the  door,  hoping  to  get 
away  before  she  became  aware  of  him;  but  some 
sound  of  his  movement  reached  her,  and  she  sat  up, 
startled,  facing  him. 

"Bibbs!    I  thought  I  saw  you  go  out  awhile  ago." 
"Yes.    I  came  back,  though.    I'm  sorry — " 
"Did  you  hear  me  quarreling  with  Sibyl?" 
"Only  what  you  said  in  the  hall.    You  lie  down 
again,  Edith.    I'm  going  out." 

"No;  don't  go."  She  applied  a  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes,  emitted  a  sob,  and  repeated  her  request. 
"Don't  go.  I  don't  mind  you;  you're  quiet,  any 
how.  Mamma's  so  fussy,  and  never  gets  anywhere. 
I  don't  mind  you  at  all,  but  I  wish  you'd  sit  down." 
"All  right."  And  he  returned  to  his  chair  beside 
the  trunk.  *  *  Go  ahead  and  cry  all  you  want,  Edith," 
he  said.  ' '  No  harm  in  that !" 

"Sibyl  told  mamma  —  oh!"  she  began,  choking. 
"Mary  Vertrees  had  mamma  and  Sibyl  and  I  to 
tea,  one  afternoon  two  weeks  or  so  ago,  and  she  had 
some  women  there  that  Sibyl's  been  crazy  to  get 
in  with,  and  she  just  laid  herself  out  to  make  a  hit 
with  'em,  and  she's  been  running  after  'em  ever 
since,  and  now  she  comes  over  here  and  says  they 
say  Bobby  Lamhorn  is  so  bad  that,  even  though 
they  like  his  family,  none  of  the  nice  people  in  town 

99 


THE    TURMOIL 

would  let  him  in  their  houses.  In  the  first  place, 
it's  a  falsehood,  and  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it; 
and  in  the  second  place  I  know  the  reason  she  did 
it,  and,  what's  more,  she  knows  I  know  it!  I  won't 
say  what  it  is — not  yet — because  papa  and  all  of 
you  would  think  I'm  as  crazy  as  she  is  snaky;  and 
Roscoe's  such  a  fool  he'd  probably  quit  speaking 
to  me.  But  it's  true!  Just  you  watch  her;  that's 
all  I  ask.  Just  you  watch  that  woman.  You'll  see!" 

As  it  happened,  Bibbs  was  literally  watching 
"that  woman.'*  Glancing  from  the  window,  he 
saw  Sibyl  pause  upon  the  pavement  in  front  of  the 
old  house  next  door.  She  stood  a  moment,  in  deep 
thought,  then  walked  quickly  up  the  path  to  the 
door,  undoubtedly  with  the  intention  of  calling. 
But  he  did  not  mention  this  to  his  sister,  who,  after 
delivering  herself  of  a  rather  vague  jeremiad  upon 
the  subject  of  her  sister-in-law's  treacheries,  de 
parted  to  her  own  chamber,  leaving  him  to  his  specu 
lations.  The  chief  of  these  concerned  the  social 
elasticities  of  women.  Sibyl  had  just  been  a  par 
ticipant  in  a  violent  scene;  she  had  suffered  hot 
insult  of  a  kind  that  could  not  fail  to  set  her  quiv 
ering  with  resentment;  and  yet  she  elected  to  betake 
herself  to  the  presence  of  people  whom  she  knew 
no  more  than  "formally."  Bibbs  marveled.  Surely, 
he  reflected,  some  traces  of  emotion  must  linger 
upon  Sibyl's  face  or  in  her  manner;  she  could  not 
have  ironed  it  all  quite  out  in  the  three  or  four 
minutes  it  took  her  to  reach  the  Vertreeses'  door. 

And  in  this  he  was  not  mistaken,  for  Mary  Vertrees 
was  at  that  moment  wondering  what  internal  excite 
ment  Mrs.  Roscoe  Sheridan  was  striving  to  master. 

100 


THE 


But  Sibyl  had  no  idea  that  she  was  allowing  herself 
to  exhibit  anything  except  the  gaiety  which  she 
conceived  proper  to  the  manner  of  a  casual  caller. 
She  was  wholly  intent  upon  fulfilling  the  sudden 
purpose  that  brought  her,  and  she  was  no  more  self- 
conscious  than  she  was  finely  intelligent.  For  Sibyl 
Sheridan  belonged  to  a  type  Scriptural  in  its  an 
tiquity.  She  was  merely  the  idle  and  half  -educated 
intriguer  who  may  and  does  delude  men,  of  course, 
and  the  best  and  dullest  of  her  own  sex  as  well, 
finding  invariably  strong  supporters  among  these 
latter.  It  is  a  type  that  has  wrought  some  damage 
in  the  world  and  would  have  wrought  greater,  save 
for  the  check  put  upon  its  power  by  intelligent 
women  and  by  its  own  "lack  of  perspective/'  for 
it  is  a  type  that  never  sees  itself.  Sibyl  followed  her 
impulses  with  no  reflection  or  question  —  it  was  like 
a  hound  on  the  gallop  after  a  master  on  horseback. 
She  had  not  even  the  instinct  to  stop  and  consider 
her  effect.  If  she  wished  to  make  a  certain  impres 
sion  she  believed  that  she  made  it.  She  believed 
that  she  was  believed. 

"My  mother  asked  me  to  say  that  she  was  sorry 
.she  couldn't  come  down,"  Mary  said,  when  they 
were  seated. 

Sibyl  ran  the  scale  of  a  cooing  simulance  of  laugh- 
ter,  which  she  had  been  brought  up  to  consider  the 
polite  thing  to  do  after  a  remark  addressed  to  her  by 
any  person  with  whom  she  was  not  on  familiar  terms. 
It  was  intended  partly  as  a  courtesy  and  partly  as 
the  foundation  for  an  impression  of  sweetness. 

"Just  thought  I'd  fly  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  con 
tinuing  the  cooing  to  relieve  the  last  doubt  of  her 

101 


THE  TURMOIL 


geniality.  "I  thought  I'd  just  behave  like  real 
country  neighbors.  We  are  almost  out  in  the  coun 
try,  so  far  from  down-town,  aren't  we?  And  it 
seemed  such  a  lovely  day!  I  wanted  to  tell  you  how 
much  I  enjoyed  meeting  those  nice  people  at  tea 
that  afternoon.  You  see,  coming  here  a  bride  and 
never  having  lived  here  before,  I've  had  to  depend 
on  my  husband's  friends  almost  entirely,  and  I 
really  Ve  known  scarcely  anybody.  Mr.  Sheridan 
has  been  so  engrossed  in  business  ever  since  he  was 
a  mere  boy,  why,  of  course — " 

She  paused,  with  the  air  of  having  completed  an 
explanation. 

"Of  course,"  said  Mary,  sympathetically  accept 
ing  it. 

"Yes.  I've  been  seeing  quite  a  lot  of  the  Kit- 
tersbys  since  that  afternoon,"  Sibyl  went  on. 
"They're  really  delightful  people.  Indeed  they 
are!  Yes—" 

She  stopped  with  unconscious  abruptness,  her 
mind  plainly  wandering  to  another  matter;  and 
Mary  perceived  that  she  had  come  upon  a  definite 
errand.  Moreover,  a  tensing  of  Sibyl's  eyelids,  in 
that  moment  of  abstraction  as  she  looked  aside 
from  her  hostess,  indicated  that  the  errand  was  a 
serious  one  for  the  caller  and  easily  to  be  connected 
with  the  slight  but  perceptible  agitation  underlying 
her  assumption  of  cheerful  ease.  There  was  a  rest 
lessness  of  breathing,  a  restlessness  of  hands. 

"Mrs.  Kittersby  and  her  daughter  were  chatting 
about  some  of  the  people  here  in  town  the  other  day," 
said  Sibyl,  repeating  the  cooing  and  protracting  it. 
"They  said  something  that  took  me  by  surprise! 

102 


THE   TURMOIL 

We  were  talking  about  our  mutual  friend,  Mr. 
Robert  Lamhorn — " 

Mary  interrupted  her  promptly.  "Do  you  mean 
'mutual'  to  include  my  mother  and  me?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  yes;  the  Kittersbys  and  you  and  all  of  us 
Sheridans,  I  mean." 

"No,"  said  Mary.  "We  shouldn't  consider  Mr. 
Robert  Lamhorn  a  friend  of  ours." 

To  her  surprise,  Sibyl  nodded  eagerly,  as  if  great 
ly  pleased.  "That's  just  the  way  Mrs.  Kittersby 
talked!"  she  cried,  with  a  vehemence  that  made 
Mary  stare.  "Yes,  and  I  hear  that's  the  way  all 
you  old  families  here  speak  of  him!" 

Mary  looked  aside,  but  otherwise  she  was  able 
to  maintain  her  composure.  "I  had  the  impression 
he  was  a  friend  of  yours,"  she  said;  adding,  hastily, 
"and  your  husband's." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  caller,  absently.  "He  is,  cer 
tainly.  A  man's  reputation  for  a  little  gaiety 
oughtn't  to  make  a  great  difference  to  married  peo 
ple,  of  course.  It's  where  young  girls  are  in  question. 
Then  it  may  be  very,  very  dangerous.  There  are  a 
great  many  things  safe  and  proper  for  married  people 
that  might  be  awf'ly  imprudent  for  a  young  girl. 
Don't  you  agree,  Miss  Vertrees?" 

"I  don't  know,"  returned  the  frank  Mary.  "Do 
you  mean  that  you  intend  to  remain  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Lamhorn 's,  but  disapprove  of  Miss  Sheridan's  doing 
so?" 

"That's  it  exactly!"  was  the  naive  and  ardent 
response  of  Sibyl.  "What  /  feel  about  it  is  that  a 
man  with  his  reputation  isn't  at  all  suitable  for 
Edith,  and  the  family  ought  to  be  made  to  under- 

103 


THE   TURMOIL 

stand  it.  I  tell  you,"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  access 
of  vehemence,  "her  father  ought  to  put  his  foot 
down!" 

Her  eyes  flashed  with  a  green  spark;  something 
seemed  to  leap  out  and  then  retreat,  but  not  before 
Mary  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  it,  as  one  might 
catch  a  glimpse  of  a  thing  darting  forth  and  then 
scuttling  back  into  hiding  under  a  bush. 

"Of  course,"  said  Sibyl,  much  more  composedly, 
"I  hardly  need  say  that  it's  entirely  on  Edith's 
account  that  I'm  worried  about  this.  I'm  as  fond 
of  Edith  as  if  she  was  really  my  sister,  and  I  can't 
help  fretting  about  it.  It  would  break  my  heart 
to  have  Edith's  life  spoiled." 

This  tune  was  off  the  key,  to  Mary's  ear.  Sibyl 
tried  to  sing  with  pathos,  but  she  flatted. 

And  when  a  lady  receives  a  call  from  another 
who  suffers  under  the  stress  of  some  feeling  which 
she  wishes  to  conceal,  there  is  not  uncommonly  de 
veloped  a  phenomenon  of  duality  comparable  to  the 
effect  obtained  by  placing  two  mirrors  opposite  each 
other,  one  clear  and  the  other  flawed.  In  this  case, 
particularly,  Sibyl  had  an  imperfect  consciousness 
of  Mary.  The  Mary  Vertrees  that  she  saw  was 
merely  something  to  be  cozened  to  her  own  frantic 
purpose — a  Mary  Vertrees  who  was  incapable  of 
penetrating  that  purpose.  Sibyl  sat  there  believing 
that  she  was  projecting  the  image  of  herself  that  she 
desired  to  project,  never  dreaming  that  with  every 
word,  every  look,  and  every  gesture  she  was  more 
and  more  fully  disclosing  the  pitiable  truth  to  the 
clear  eyes  of  Mary.  And  the  Sibyl  that  Mary  saw 
was  an  overdressed  woman,  in  manner  half  rustic, 

704., 


THE   TURMOIL 

and  in  mind  as  shallow  as  a  pan,  but  possessed  by 
emotions  that  appeared  to  be  strong — perhaps  even 
violent.  What  those  emotions  were  Mary  had  not 
guessed,  but  she  began  to  suspect. 

"And  Edith's  life  would  be  spoiled,"  Sibyl  con 
tinued.  "It  would  be  a  dreadful  thing  for  the  whole 
family.  She's  the  very  apple  of  Father  Sheridan's 
eye,  and  he's  as  proud  of  her  as  he  is  of  Jim  and 
Roscoe.  It  would  be  a  horrible  thing  for  him  to 
have  her  marry  a  man  like  Robert  Lamhorn;  but 
he  doesn't  know  anything  about  him,  and  if  some 
body  doesn't  tell  him,  what  I'm  most  afraid  of  is 
that  Edith  might  get  his  consent  and  hurry  on  the 
wedding  before  he  finds  out,  and  then  it  would  be 
too  late.  You  see,  Miss  Vertrees,  it's  very  difficult 
for  me  to  decide  just  what  it's  my  duty  to  do." 

"I  see,"  said  Mary,  looking  at  her  thoughtfully. 
"Does  Miss  Sheridan  seem  to — to  care  very  much 
about  him?" 

"He's  deliberately  fascinated  her,"  returned  the 
visitor,  beginning  to  breathe  quickly  and  heavily. 
"Oh,  she  wasn't  difficult!  She  knew  she  wasn't  in 
right  in  this  town,  and  she  was  crazy  to  meet  the 
people  that  were,  and  she  thought  he  was  one  of 
'em.  But  that  was  only  the  start  that  made  it  easy 
for  him — and  he  didn't  need  it.  He  could  have  done 
it,  anyway!"  Sibyl  was  launched  now;  her  eyes 
were  furious  and  her  voice  shook.  "He  went  after 
her  deliberately,  the  way  he  does  everything;  he's  as 
cold-blooded  as  a  fish.  All  he  cares  about  is  his 
own  pleasure,  and  lately  he's  decided  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  get  hold  of  a  piece  of  real  money — and 
there  was  Edith!  And  he'll  marry  her  I  Nothing 
'  105 


THE  TURMOIL 

on  earth  can  stop  him  unless  he  finds  out  she  won't 
have  any  money  if  she  marries  him,  and  the  only 
person  that  could  make  him  understand  that  is 
Father  Sheridan.  Somehow,  that's  got  to  be  man 
aged,  because  Lamhorn  is  going  to  hurry  it  on  as 
fast  as  he  can.  He  told  me  so  last  night.  He  said  he 
was  going  to  marry  her  the  first  minute  he  could 
persuade  her  to  it — and  little  Edith's  all  ready  to 
be  persuaded!"  Sibyl's  eyes  flashed  green  again. 
"And  he  swore  he'd  do  it,"  she  panted.  "He  swore 
he'd  marry  Edith  Sheridan,  and  nothing  on  earth 
could  stop  him!" 

And  then  Mary  understood.  Her  lips  parted  and 
she  stared  at  the  babbling  creature  incredulously,  a 
sudden  vivid  picture  in  her  mind,  a  canvas  of  un 
conscious  Sibyl's  painting.  Mary  beheld  it  with 
pity  and  horror:  she  saw  Sibyl  clinging  to  Robert 
Lamhorn,  raging,  in  a  whisper,  perhaps — for  Roscoe 
might  have  been  in  the  house,  or  servants  might 
have  heard.  She  saw  Sibyl  entreating,  beseeching, 
threatening  despairingly,  and  Lamhorn — tired  of  her 
— first  evasive,  then  brutally  letting  her  have  the 
truth;  and  at  last,  infuriated,  "swearing"  to  marry 
her  rival.  If  Sibyl  had  not  babbled  out  the  word 
"swore"  it  might  have  been  less  plain. 

The  poor  woman  blundered  on,  wholly  unaware 
of  what  she  had  confessed.  "You  see,"  she  said, 
more  quietly,  "whatever's  going  to  be  done  ought 
to  be  done  right  away.  I  went  over  and  told  Moth 
er  Sheridan  what  I'd  heard  about  Lamhorn — oh,  I 
was  open  and  aboveboard!  I  told  her  right  before 
Edith.  I  think  it  ought  all  to  be  done  with  perfect 
frankness,  because  nobody  can  say  it  isn't  for  the 

1 06 


THE     POOR    WOMAN    BLUNDERED    ON,     WHOLLY    UNAWARE     OF    WHAT 
SHE    HAD    CONFESSED 


THE  TURMOIL 

girl's  own  good  and  what  her  best  friend  would  do. 
But  Mother  Sheridan's  under  Edith's  thumb,  and 
she's  afraid  to  ever  come  right  out  with  anything. 
Father  Sheridan's  different.  Edith  can  get  any 
thing  she  wants  out  of  him  in  the  way  of  money  or 
ordinary  indulgence,  but  when  it  comes  to  a  matter 
like  this  he'd  be  a  steel  rock.  If  it's  a  question  of 
his  will  against  anybody  else's  he'd  make  his  will 
rule  if  it  killed  'em  both!  Now,  he'd  never  in  the 
world  let  Lamhorn  come  near  the  house  again  if  he 
knew  his  reputation.  So,  you  see,  somebody's  got 
to  tell  him.  It  isn't  a  very  easy  position  for  me,  is  it, 
Miss  Vertrees?" 

"No,"  said  Mary,  gravely. 

"Well,  to  be  frank,"  said  Sibyl,  smiling,  "that's 
why  I've  come  to  you." 

"Tow*/"    Mary  frowned. 

Sibyl  rippled  and  cooed  again.  "There  isn't  any 
body  ever  made  such  a  hit  with  Father  Sheridan 
in  his  life  as  you  have.  And  of  course  we  all  hope 
you're  not  going  to  be  exactly  an  outsider  in  the 
affairs  of  the  family!"  (This  sally  with  another 
and  louder  effect  of  laughter.)  "And  if  it's  my  duty, 
why,  in  a  way,  I  think  it  might  be  thought  yours, 
too." 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed  Mary,  sharply. 

"Listen,"  said  Sibyl.  "Now  suppose  I  go  to 
Father  Sheridan  with  this  story,  and  Edith  says  it's 
not  true;  suppose  she  says  Lamhorn  has  a  good 
reputation  and  that  I'm  repeating  irresponsible  gos 
sip,  or  suppose  (what's  most  likely)  she  loses  her 
temper  and  says  I  invented  it,  then  what  am  I 
going  to  do?  Father  Sheridan  doesn't  know  Mrs. 

107 


THE 'TURMOIL 

Kittersby  and  her  daughter,  and  they're  out  of  the 
question,  anyway.  But  suppose  I  could  say:  'All 
right,  if  you  want  proof,  ask  Miss  Vertrees.  She 
came  with  me,  and  she's  waiting  in  the  next  room 
right  now,  to — " 

"No,  no,"  said  Mary,  quickly.  "You  mustn't — " 
"Listen  just  a  minute  more,"  Sibyl  urged,  con 
fidingly.  She  was  on  easy  ground  now,  to  her  own 
mind,  and  had  no  doubt  of  her  success.  "You 
naturally  don't  want  to  begin  by  taking  part  in  a 
family  quarrel,  but  if  you  take  part  in  it,  it  won't 
be  one.  You  don't  know  yourself  what  weight  you 
carry  over  there,  and  no  one  would  have  the  right 
to  say  you  did  it  except  out  of  the  purest  kindness. 
Don't  you  see  that  Jim  and  his  father  would  admire 
you  all  the  more  for  it?  Miss  Vertrees,  listen! 
Don't  you  see  we  ought  to  do  it,  you  and  I?  Do 
you  suppose  Robert  Lamhorn  cares  the  snap  of  his 
finger  for  her?  Do  you  suppose  a  man  like  him 
would  look  at  Edith  Sheridan  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
money?"  And  again  Sibyl's  emotion  rose  to  the 
surface.  "I  tell  you  he's  after  nothing  on  earth  but 
to  get  his  finger  in  that  old  man's  money-pile,  over 
there,  next  door!  He'd  marry  anybody  to  do  it. 
Marry  Edith?"  she  cried.  "I  tell  you  he'd  marry 
their  nigger  cook  for  that!" 

She  stopped,  afraid — at  the  wrong  time — that  she 
had  been  too  vehement,  but  a  glance  at  Mary 
reassured  her,  and  Sibyl  decided  that  she  had  pro 
duced  the  effect  she  wished.  Mary  was  not  looking 
at  her;  she  was  staring  straight  before  her  at  the 
wall,  her  eyes  wide  and  shining.  She  became  visibly 
a  little  paler  as  Sibyl  looked  at  her. 

108 


THE  TURMOIL 

"After  nothing  on  earth  but  to  get  his  finger  in 
that  old  man's  money-pile,  over  there,  next  door!" 
The  voice  was  vulgar,  the  words  were  vulgar — and 
the  plain  truth  was  vulgar!  How  it  rang  in  Mary 
Vertrees's  ears!  The  clear  mirror  had  caught  its 
own  image  clearly  in  the  flawed  one  at  last. 

Sibyl  put  forth  her  best  bid  to  clench  the  matter. 
She  offered  her  bargain.  "Now  don't  you  worry," 
she  said,  sunnily,  "about  this  setting  Edith  against 
you.  She'll  get  over  it  after  a  while,  anyway,  but 
if  she  tried  to  be  spiteful  and  make  it  uncomfortable 
for  you  when  you  drop  in  over  there,  or  managed 
so  as  to  sort  of  leave  you  out,  why,  I've  got  a  house, 
and  Jim  likes  to  come  there.  I  don't  think  Edith 
would  be  that  way;  she's  too  crazy  to  have  you 
take  her  around  with  the  smart  crowd,  but  if  she 
did,  you  needn't  worry.  And  another  thing  —  I 
guess  you  won't  mind  Jim's  own  sister-in-law  speak 
ing  of  it.  Of  course,  I  don't  know  just  how  matters 
stand  between  you  and  Jim,  but  Jim  and  Roscoe 
are  about  as  much  alike  as  two  brothers  can  be, 
and  Roscoe  was  very  slow  making  up  his  mind; 
sometimes  I  used  to  think  he  actually  never  would. 
Now,  what  I  mean  is,  sisters-in-law  can  do  lots  of 
things  to  help  matters  on  like  that.  There's  lots 
of  little  things  can  be  said,  and  lots — " 

She  stopped,  puzzled.  Mary  Vertrees  had  gone 
from  pale  to  scarlet,  and  now,  still  scarlet  indeed, 
she  rose,  without  a  word  of  explanation,  or  any 
other  kind  of  word,  and  walked  slowly  to  the  open 
door  and  out  of  the  room. 

Sibyl  was  a  little  taken  aback.  She  supposed 
Mary  had  remembered  something  neglected  and 

109 


THE  TURMOIL 

necessary  for  the  instruction  of  a  servant,  and  that 
she  would  return  in  a  moment;  but  it  was  rather 
a  rude  excess  of  absent-mindedness  not  to  have 
excused  herself,  especially  as  her  guest  was  talking. 
And,  Mary's  return  being  delayed,  Sibyl  found  time 
to  think  this  unprefaced  exit  odder  and  ruder  than 
she  had  first  considered  it.  There  might  have  been 
more  excuse  for  it,  she  thought,  had  she  been  speak 
ing  of  matters  less  important — offering  to  do  the 
girl  all  the  kindness  in  her  power,  too! 

Sibyl  yawned  and  swung  her  muff  impatiently; 
she  examined  the  sole  of  her  shoe;  she  decided  on 
a  new  shape  of  heel;  she  made  an  inventory  of  the 
furniture  of  the  room,  of  the  rugs,  of  the  wall-paper 
and  engravings.  Then  she  looked  at  her  watch 
and  frowned;  went  to  a  window  and  stood  looking 
out  upon  the  brown  lawn,  then  came  back  to  the 
chair  she  had  abandoned,  and  sat  again.  There  was 
no  sound  in  the  house. 

A  strange  expression  began  imperceptibly  to  alter 
the  planes  of  her  face,  and  slowly  she  grew  as  scarlet 
as  Mary — scarlet  to  the  ears.  She  looked  at  her 
watch  again — and  twenty-five  minutes  had  elapsed 
since  she  had  looked  at  it  before. 

She  went  into  the  hall,  glanced  over  her  shoulder 
oddly;  then  she  let  herself  softly  out  of  the  front 
door,  and  went  across  the  street  to  her  own  house. 

Roscoe  met  her  upon  the  threshold,  gloomily. 
"Saw  you  from  the  window,"  he  explained.  "You 
must  find  a  lot  to  say  to  that  old  lady." 

"What  old  lady?" 

"Mrs.  Vertrees.  I  been  waiting  for  you  a  long 
time,  and  I  saw  the  daughter  come  out,  fifteen  min- 

no 


THE  TUR;MOIL 

utes  ago,  and  post  a  letter,  and  then  walk  on  up  the 
street.  Don't  stand  out  on  the  porch,"  he  said, 
crossly.  "Come  in  here.  There's  something  it's 
come  time  I'll  have  to  talk  to  you  about.  Come  in!" 

But  as  she  was  moving  to  obey  he  glanced  across 
at  his  father's  house  and  started.  He  lifted  his 
hand  to  shield  his  eyes  from  the  setting  sun,  staring 
fixedly.  " Something's  the  matter  over  there,"  he 
muttered,  and  then,  more  loudly,  as  alarm  came  into 
his  voice,  he  said,  " What's  the  matter  over  there?" 

Bibbs  dashed  out  of  the  gate  in  an  automobile  set 
at  its  highest  speed,  and  as  he  saw  Roscoe  he  made 
a  gesture  singularly  eloquent  of  calamity,  and  was 
lost  at  once  in  a  cloud  of  dust  down  the  street. 
Edith  had  followed  part  of  the  way  down  the  drive, 
and  it  could  be  seen  that  she  was  crying  bitterly. 
She  lifted  both  arms  to  Roscoe,  summoning  him. 

"By  George!"  gasped  Roscoe.  "I  believe  some 
body's  dead!" 

And  he  started  for  the  New  House  at  a  run. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CHERIDAN  had  decided  to  conclude  his  day's 
^  work  early  that  afternoon,  and  at  about  two 
o'clock  he  left  his  office  with  a  man  of  affairs  from 
foreign  parts,  who  had  traveled  far  for  a  business 
conference  with  Sheridan  and  his  colleagues.  Herr 
Favre,  in  spite  of  his  French  name,  was  a  gentleman 
of  Bavaria.  It  was  his  first  visit  to  our  country, 
and  Sheridan  took  pleasure  in  showing  him  the  sights 
of  the  country's  finest  city.  They  got  into  an  open 
car  at  the  main  entrance  of  the  Sheridan  Building, 
and  were  driven  first,  slowly  and  momentously, 
through  the  wholesale  district  and  the  retail  dis 
trict  ;  then  more  rapidly  they  inspected  the  packing 
houses  and  the  stock-yards;  then  skirmished  over 
the  "park  system"  and  "boulevards";  and  after 
that  whizzed  through  the  "residence  section"  on 
their  way  to  the  factories  and  foundries. 

"All  cray,"  observed  Herr  Favre,  smilingly. 

" 'Cray ' ?"  echoed  Sheridan.  "I  don't  know  what 
you  mean.  '  Cray '  ? " 

"No  white,"  said  Herr  Favre,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand  toward  the  long  rows  of  houses  on  both  sides 
of  the  street.  "No  white  lace  window-curtains; 
all  cray  lace  window-curtains." 

"Oh,    I    see!"     Sheridan    laughed    indulgently. 

112 


THE   TURMOIL 

"You  mean  'gray'  No,  they  ain't,  they're  white. 
I  never  saw  any  gray  ones." 

Herr  Favre  shook  his  head,  much  amused.  "There 
are  no  white  ones,"  he  said.  "There  is  no  white 
anything  in  your  city;  no  white  window-curtains, 
no  white  house,  no  white  peeble!"  He  pointed  up 
ward.  "Smoke!"  Then  he  sniffed  the  air  and 
clasped  his  nose  between  forefinger  and  thumb. 
"Smoke!  Smoke  efrywhere.  Smoke  in  your  in- 
sites."  He  tapped  his  chest.  "Smoke  in  your 
lunks!" 

"Oh!  Smoker  Sheridan  cried  with  gusto,  draw 
ing  in  a  deep  breath  and  patently  finding  it  delicious. 
"You  bet  we  got  smoke!" 

"Exbensif!"  said  Herr  Favre.  "Ruins  foliage; 
ruins  fabrics.  Maybe  in  summer  it  iss  not  so  bad, 
but  I  wonder  your  wifes  will  bear  it." 

Sheridan  laughed  uproariously.  "They  know  it 
means  new  spring  hats  for  'em!" 

"They  must  need  many,  too!"  said  the  visitor. 
"New  hats,  new  all  things,  but  nothing  white. 
In  Munchen  we  could  not  do  it;  we  are  a  safing 
peeble." 

"Where's  that?" 

"In  Munchen.    You  say  *  Munich.' ' 

"Well,  I  never  been  to  Munich,  but  I  took  in  the 
Mediterranean  trip,  and  I  tell  you,  outside  o'  some 
right  good  scenery,  all  I  saw  was  mighty  dirty 
and  mighty  shiftless  and  mighty  run-down  at  the 
heel.  Now  comin'  right  down  to  it,  Mr.  Farver, 
wouldn't  you  rather  live  here  in  this  town  than  in 
Munich?  I  know  you  got  more  enterprise  up  there 
than  the  part  of  the  old  country  I  saw,  and  I  know 


THE   TURMOIL 

you're  a  live  business  man  and  you're  associated  with 
others  like  you,  but  when  it  comes  to  limn'  in  a  place, 
wouldn't  you  heap  rather  be  here  than  over  there?" 

"For  me,"  said  Herr  Favre,  "no.  Here  I  should 
not  think  I  was  living.  It  would  be  like  the  miner 
who  goes  into  the  mine  to  work;  nothing  else." 

"We  got  a  good  many  good  citizens  here  from 
your  part  o'  the  world.  They  like  it." 

"Oh  yes."  And  Herr  Favre  laughed  deprecat- 
ingly.  "The  first  generation,  they  bring  their  Ger 
many  with  them;  then,  after  that,  they  are  Amer 
icans,  like  you."  He  tapped  his  host's  big  knee 
genially.  "You  are  patriot;  so  are  they." 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  must  be  a  pretty  hot  little 
patriot  yourself,  Mr.  Farver!"  Sheridan  exclaimed, 
gaily.  "You  certainly  stand  up  for  your  own  town, 
if  you  stick  to  sayin'  you'd  rather  live  there  than  you 
would  here.  Yes,  sir!  You  sure  are  some  patriot 
to  say  that — after  you've  seen  our  city!  It  ain't 
reasonable  in  you,  but  I  must  say  I  kind  of  admire 
you  for  it ;  every  man  ought  to  stick  up  for  his  own, 
even  when  he  sees  the  other  fellow's  got  the  goods 
on  him.  Yet  I  expect  way  down  deep  in  your  heart, 
Mr.  Farver,  you'd  rather  live  right  here  than  any 
place  else  in  the  world,  if  you  had  your  choice. 
Man  alive!  this  is  God's  country,  Mr.  Farver,  and 
a  blind  man  couldn't  help  seein'  it!  You  couldn't 
stand  where  you  do  in  a  business  way  and  not 
see  it.  Soho,  boy!  Here  we  are.  This  is  the  big 
works,  and  I'll  show  you  something  now  that  '11 
make  your  eyes  stick  out!" 

They  had  arrived  at  the  Pump  Works ;  and  for  an 
hour  Herr  Favre  was  personally  conducted  and  per- 

114 


THE   TURMOIL 

sonally  instructed  by  the  founder  and  president,  the 
buzzing  queen  bee  of  those  buzzing  hives. 

"Now  I'll  take  you  for  a  spin  in  the  country," 
said  Sheridan,  when  at  last  they  came  out  to  the 
car  again.  "We'll  take  a  breezer."  But,  with  his 
foot  on  the  step,  he  paused  to  hail  a  neat  young 
man  who  came  out  of  the  office  smiling  a  greeting. 
' '  Hello,  young  fellow !"  Sheridan  said,  heartily.  ' '  On 
the  job,  are  you,  Jimmie?  Ha!  They  don't  catch 
you  of  of  it  very  often,  I  guess,  though  I  do  hear 
you  go  automobile-ridin'  in  the  country  sometimes 
with  a  mighty  fine-lookin'  girl  settin'  up  beside 
you!"  He  roared  with  laughter,  clapping  his  son 
upon  the  shoulder.  "That's  all  right  with  me — if 
it  is  with  her!  So,  Jimmie?  Well,  when  we  goin' 
to  move  into  your  new  warehouses?  Monday?" 

"Sunday,  if  you  want  to,"  said  Jim. 

"No!"  cried  his  father,  delighted.  "Don't  tell 
me  you're  goin'  to  keep  your  word  about  dates! 
That's  no  way  to  do  contractin' !  Never  heard  of  a 
contractor  yet  didn't  want  more  time." 

"They'll  be  all  ready  for  you  on  the  minute," 
said  Jim.  "I'm  going  over  both  of  'em  now,  with 
Links  and  Sherman,  from  foundation  to  roof.  I 
guess  they'll  pass  inspection,  too!" 

"Well,  then,  when  you  get  through  with  that," 
said  his  father,  "you  go  and  take  your  girl  out 
ridin'.  By  George!  you've  earned  it!  You  tell 
her  you  stand  high  with  me!"  He  stepped  into  the 
car,  waving  a  waggish  farewell,  and,  when  the  wheels 
were  in  motion  again,  he  turned  upon  his  companion 
a  broad  face  literally  shining  with  pride.  "That's 
my  boy  Jimmie!"  he  said. 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Fine  young  man,  yes,"  said  Hen*  Favre. 

"I  got  two  o'  the  finest  boys,"  said  Sheridan, 
"I  got  two  o'  the  finest  boys  God  ever  made,  and 
that's  a  fact,  Mr.  Farver!  Jim's  the  oldest,  and  I 
tell  you  they  got  to  get  up  the  day  before  if  they 
expect  to  catch  him  in  bed!  My  other  boy,  Roscoe, 
he's  always  to  the  good,  too,  but  Jim's  a  wizard. 
You  saw  them  two  new-process  warehouses,  just 
about  finished?  Well,  Jim  built  'em.  I'll  tell  you 
about  that,  Mr.  Farver."  And  he  recited  this  his 
tory,  describing  the  new  process  at  length;  in  fact, 
he  had  such  pride  in  Jim's  achievement  that  he 
told  Herr  Favre  all  about  it  more  than  once. 

"Fine  young  man,  yes,"  repeated  the  good  Munch- 
ner,  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later.  They  were 
many  miles  out  in  the  open  country  by  this  time. 

"He  is  that!"  said  Sheridan,  adding,  as  if  confi 
dentially:  "I  got  a  fine  family,  Mr.  Farver — fine 
chuldern.  I  got  a  daughter  now;  you  take  her  and 
put  her  anywhere  you  please,  and  she'll  shine  up 
with  any  of  'em.  There's  culture  and  refinement  and 
society  in  this  town  by  the  car-load,  and  here  lately 
she's  been  gettin'  right  in  the  thick  of  it — her  and 
my  daughter-in-law,  both.  I  got  a  mighty  fine 
daughter-in-law,  Mr.  Farver.  I'm  goin'  to  get  you 
up  for  a  meal  with  us  before  you  leave  town,  and 
you'll  see — and,  well,  sir,  from  all  I  hear  the  two 
of  'em  been  holdin'  their  own  with  the  best.  Myself, 
I  and  the  wife  never  had  time  for  much  o'  that 
kind  o'  doin's,  but  it's  all  right  and  good  for  the 
chuldern;  and  my  daughter  she's  always  kind  of 
taken  to  it.  I'll  read  you  a  poem  she  wrote  when  I 
get  you  up  at  the  house.  She  wrote  it  in  school 

116 


THE   TURMOIL 

and  took  the  first  prize  for  poetry  with  it.  I  tell 
you  they  don't  make  'em  any  smarter  'n  that  girl, 
Mr.  Farver.  Yes,  sir;  take  us  all  round,  we're  a 
pretty  happy  family;  yes,  sir.  Roscoe  hasn't  got 
any  chuldern  yet,  and  I  haven't  ever  spoke  to  him 
and  his  wife  about  it — it's  kind  of  a  delicate  matter 
— but  it's  about  time  the  wife  and  I  saw  some  gran'- 
chuldern  growin'  up  around  us.  I  certainly  do 
hanker  for  about  four  or  five  little  curly-headed 
rascals  to  take  on  my  knee.  Boys,  I  hope,  o'  course; 
that's  only  natural.  Jim's  got  his  eye  on  a  mighty 
splendid-lookin'  girl;  lives  right  next  door  to  us. 
I  expect  you  heard  me  joshin'  him  about  it  back 
yonder.  She's  one  the  ole  blue-bloods  here,  and  I 
guess  it  was  a  mighty  good  stock — to  raise  her! 
She's  one  these  girls  that  stand  right  up  and  look 
at  you!  And  pretty?  She's  the  prettiest  thing 
you  ever  saw!  Good  size,  too;  good  health  and 
good  sense.  Jim  '11  be  just  right  if  he  gets  her. 
I  must  say  it  tickles  me  to  think  o'  the  way  that 
boy  took  ahold  o'  that  job  back  yonder.  Four 
months  and  a  half!  Yes,  sir — " 

He  expanded  this  theme  once  more;  and  thus 
he  continued  to  entertain  the  stranger  throughout 
the  long  drive.  Darkness  had  fallen  before  they 
reached  the  city  on  their  return,  and  it  was  after 
five  when  Sheridan  allowed  Herr  Favre  to  descend 
at  the  door  of  his  hotel,  where  boys  were  shrieking 
extra  editions  of  the  evening  paper. 

"Now,  good  night,  Mr.  Farver,"  said  Sheridan, 
leaning  from  the  car  to  shake  hands  with  his  guest. 
"Don't  forget  I'm  goin'  to  come  around  and  take 
you  up  to —  Go  on  away,  boy!" 

117 


THE   TURMOIL 

A  newsboy  had  thrust  himself  almost  between 
them,  yelling,  "Extry!  Secon'  Extry.  Extry,  all 
about  the  horrable  accident.  Extry!" 

"Get  out!"  laughed  Sheridan.  "Who  wants  to 
read  about  accidents?  Get  out!'* 

The  boy  moved  away  philosophically.  "Extry! 
Extry!"  he  shrilled.  "Three  men  killed!  Extry! 
Millionaire  killed!  Two  other  men  killed!  Extry! 
Extry!" 

"Don't  forget,  Mr.  Farver."  Sheridan  completed 
his  interrupted  farewells.  "I'll  come  by  to  take 
you  up  to  our  house  for  dinner.  I'll  be  here  for  you 
about  half-past  five  to-morrow  afternoon.  Hope 
you  'njoyed  the  drive  much  as  I  have.  Good  night 
— good  night!"  He  leaned  back,  speaking  to  the 
chauffeur.  "Now  you  can  take  me  around  to  the 
Central  City  barber-shop,  boy.  I  want  to  get  a 
shave  'fore  I  go  up  home." 

"Extry!  Extry!"  screamed  the  newsboys,  zig 
zagging  among  the  crowds  like  bats  in  the  dusk. 
"Extry!  All  about  the  horrable  accident!  Extry!" 
It  struck  Sheridan  that  the  papers  sent  out  too  many 
"Extras";  they  printed  "Extras"  for  all  sorts  of 
petty  crimes  and  casualties.  It  was  a  mistake,  he 
decided,  critically.  Crying  "Wolf!"  too  often 
wouldn't  sell  the  goods;  it  was  bad  business.  The 
papers  would  "make  more  in  the  long  run,"  he  was 
sure,  if  they  published  an  "Extra"  only  when  some 
thing  of  real  importance  happened. 

"Extry!  All  about  the  hor'ble  ax'nt!  Extry!"  a 
boy  squawked  under  his  nose,  as  he  descended  from 
the  car. 

"Go  on  away!"  said  Sheridan,  gruffly,  though  he 

118 


THE   TURMOIL 

smiled.    He  liked  to  see  the  youngsters  working  so 
noisily  to  get  on  in  the  world. 

But  as  he  crossed  the  pavement  to  the  brilliant 
glass  doors  of  the  barber-shop,  a  second  newsboy 
grasped  the  arm  of  the  one  who  had  thus  cried  his 
wares. 

"Say,  Yallern,"  said  this  second,  hoarse  with 
'awe,  "'n't  chew  know  who  that  is?" 

"Who?" 

"It's  Sheridan!" 

"Jeest!"  cried  the  first,  staring  insanely. 

At  about  the  same  hour,  four  times  a  week — 
Monday,  Wednesday,  Friday,  and  Saturday — Sheri 
dan  stopped  at  this  shop  to  be  shaved  by  the  head 
barber.  The  barbers  were  negroes,  he  was  their 
great  man,  and  it  was  their  habit  to  give  him  a 
"reception,"  his  entrance  being  always  the  signal 
for  a  flurry  of  jocular  hospitality,  followed  by  gen 
eral  excesses  of  briskness  and  gaiety.  But  it  was 
not  so  this  evening. 

The  shop  was  crowded.  Copies  of  the  "Extra" 
were  being  read  by  men  waiting,  and  by  men  in  the 
latter  stages  of  treatment.  "Extras"  lay  upon  va 
cant  seats  and  showed  from  the  pockets  of  hanging 
coats. 

There  was  a  loud  chatter  between  the  practition 
ers  and  their  recumbent  patients,  a  vocal  charivari 
which  stopped  abruptly  as  Sheridan  opened  the 
door.  His  name  seemed  to  fizz  in  the  air  like  the 
last  sputtering  of  a  firework;  the  barbers  stopped 
shaving  and  clipping;  lathered  men  turned  their 
prostrate  heads  to  stare,  and  there  was  a  moment 
of  amazing  silence  in  the  shop. 

119 


THE   TURMOIL 

The  head  barber,  nearest  the  door,  stood  like  a 
barber  in  a  tableau.  His  left  hand  held  stretched 
between  thumb  and  forefinger  an  elastic  section  of 
his  helpless  customer's  cheek,  while  his  right  hand 
hung  poised  above  it,  the  razor  motionless.  And 
then,  roused  from  trance  by  the  door's  closing,  he 
accepted  the  fact  of  Sheridan's  presence.  The  bar 
ber  remembered  that  there  are  no  circumstances  in 
life — or  just  after  it — under  which  a  man  does  not 
need  to  be  shaved. 

He  stepped  forward,  profoundly  grave.  "I  be 
through  with  this  man  in  the  chair  one  minute,  Mist' 
Sheridan,"  he  said,  in  a  hushed  voice.  "Yessuh." 
And  of  a  solemn  negro  youth  who  stood  by,  gazing 
stupidly,  "You  goin'  resign?'1  he  demanded  in  a 
fierce  undertone.  "You  goin'  take  Mist'  Sheridan's 
coat?"  He  sent  an  angry  look  round  the  shop,  and 
the  barbers,  taking  his  meaning,  averted  their  eyes 
and  fell  to  work,  the  murmur  of  subdued  conversa 
tion  buzzing  from  chair  to  chair. 

"You  sit  down  one  minute,  Mist'  Sheridan,"  said 
the  head  barber,  gently.  "I  fix  nice  chair  fo'  you 
to  wait  in." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Sheridan.  "Go  on  get 
through  with  your  man." 

"Yessuh."  And  he  went  quickly  back  to  his 
chair  on  tiptoe,  followed  by  Sheridan's  puzzled 
gaze. 

Something  had  gone  wrong  in  the  shop,  evidently. 
Sheridan  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it.  Ordi 
narily  he  would  have  shouted  a  hilarious  demand 
for  the  meaning  of  the  mystery,  but  an  inexplicable 
silence  had  been  imposed  upon  him  by  the  hush 

120 


AND   YOU   COME    TO   TELL    ME    THAT? 


THE   TURMOIL 

that  fell  upon  his  entrance  and  by  the  odd  look 
every  man  in  the  shop  had  bent  upon  him. 

Vaguely  disquieted,  he  walked  to  one  of  the  seats 
in  the  rear  of  the  shop,  and  looked  up  and  down 
the  two  lines  of  barbers,  catching  quickly  shifted, 
furtive  glances  here  and  there.  He  made  this  brief 
survey  after  wondering  if  one  of  the  barbers  had  died 
suddenly,  that  day,  or  the  night  before;  but  there 
was  no  vacancy  in  either  line. 

The  seat  next  to  his  was  unoccupied,  but  some 
one  had  left  a  copy  of  the  "Extra"  there,  and,  frown 
ing,  he  picked  it  up  and  glanced  at  it.  The  first  of 
the  swollen  display  lines  had  little  meaning  to  him : 

Fatally  Faulty.  New  Process  Roof  Collapses  Hurling 
Capitalist  to  Death  With  Inventor.  Seven  Escape  When 
Crash  Comes.  Death  Claims — 

Thus  far  had  he  read  when  a  thin  hand  fell  upon 
the  paper,  covering  the  print  from  his  eyes ;  and,  look 
ing  up,  he  saw  Bibbs  standing  before  him,  pale  and 
gentle,  immeasurably  compassionate. 

"I've  come  for  you,  father/*  said  Bibbs.  "Here's 
the  boy  with  your  coat  and  hat.  Put  them  on  and 
come  home." 

And  even  then  Sheridan  did  not  understand.  So 
secure  was  he  in  the  strength  and  bigness  of  every 
thing  that  was  his,  he  did  not  know  what  calamity 
had  befallen  him.  But  he  was  frightened. 

Without  a  word,  he  followed  Bibbs  heavily  out 
through  the  still  shop,  but  as  they  reached  the  pave 
ment  he  stopped  short  and,  grasping  his  son's  sleeve 
with  shaking  fingers,  swung  him  round  so  that  they 
stood  face  to  face. 

121 


THE   TURMOIL' 

"What— what— "  His  mouth  could  not  do  him 
the  service  he  asked  of  it,  he  was  so  frightened. 

"Extry!"  screamed  a  newsboy  straight  in  his  face. 
"Young  North  Side  millionaire  insuntlv  killed f 
Extry!" 

"Not— -Jim!"  said  Sheridan. 

Bibbs  caught  his  father's  hand  in  his  own. 

"And  you  come  to  tell  me  that?" 

Sheridan  did  not  know  what  he  said.  But  in 
those  first  words  and  in  the  first  anguish  of  the  big, 
stricken  face  Bibbs  understood  the  unuttered  cry  of 
accusation : 

"Why  wasn't  it  you?" 


CHAPTER  XII 

OTANDING  in  the  black  group  under  gaunt 
^  trees  at  the  cemetery,  three  days  later,  Bibbs 
unwillingly  let  an  old,  old  thought  become  definite 
in  his  mind :  the  sickly  brother  had  buried  the  strong 
brother,  and  Bibbs  wondered  how  many  million 
times  that  had  happened  since  men  first  made  a  word 
to  name  the  sons  of  one  mother.  Almost  literally 
he  had  buried  his  strong  brother,  for  Sheridan  had 
gone  to  pieces  when  he  saw  his  dead  son.  He  had 
nothing  to  help  him  meet  the  shock,  neither  defi 
nite  religion  nor  "philosophy'*  definite  or  indefinite. 
He  could  only  beat  his  forehead  and  beg,  over  and 
over,  to  be  killed  with  an  ax,  while  his  wife  was 
helpless  except  to  entreat  him  not  to  "take  on," 
herself  adding  a  continuous  lamentation.  Edith, 
weeping,  made  truce  with  Sibyl  and  saw  to  it  that 
the  mourning  garments  were  beyond  criticism.  Ros- 
coe  was  dazed,  and  he  shirked,  justifying  himself 
curiously  by  saying  he  "never  had  any  experience 
in  such  matters.**  So  it  was  Bibbs,  the  shy  outsider, 
who  became,  during  that  dreadful  little  time,  the 
master  of  the  house;  for  as  strange  a  thing  as  that, 
sometimes,  may  be  the  result  of  a  death.  He  met 
the  relatives  from  out  of  town  at  the  station;  he 
set  the  time  for  the  funeral  and  the  time  for  meals; 
he  selected  the  flowers  and  he  selected  Jim*s  coffin; 

123 


THE   TURMOIL 

he  did  all  the  grim  things  and  all  the  other  things. 
Jim  had  belonged  to  an  order  of  Knights,  who  length 
ened  the  rites  with  a  picturesque  ceremony  of  their 
own,  and  at  first  Bibbs  wished  to  avoid  this,  but 
upon  reflection  he  offered  no  objection — he  divined 
that  the  Knights  and  their  service  would  be  not  pre 
cisely  a  consolation,  but  a  satisfaction  to  his  father. 
So  the  Knights  led  the  procession,  with  their  band 
playing  a  dirge  part  of  the  long  way  to  the  cemetery; 
and  then  turned  back,  after  forming  in  two  lines, 
plumed  hats  sympathetically  in  hand,  to  let  the 
hearse  and  the  carriages  pass  between. 

"Mighty  fine-lookin'  men,"  said  Sheridan,  bro 
kenly.  "They  all— all  liked  him.  He  was—"  His 
breath  caught  in  a  sob  and  choked  him.  "He  was — 
a  Grand  Supreme  Herald." 

Bibbs  had  divined  aright. 

"Dust  to  dust,"  said  the  minister,  under  the  gaunt 
trees;  and  at  that  Sheridan  shook  convulsively 
from  head  to  foot.  All  of  the  black  group  shivered, 
except  Bibbs,  when  it  came  to  "Dust  to  dust." 
Bibbs  stood  passive,  for  he  was  the  only  one  of  them 
who  had  known  that  thought  as  a  familiar  neighbor; 
he  had  been  close  upon  dust  himself  for  a  long,  long 
time,  and  even  now  he  could  prophesy  no  protracted 
separation  between  himself  and  dust.  The  machine- 
shop  had  brought  him  very  close,  and  if  he  had  to 
go  back  it  would  probably  bring  him  closer  still; 
so  close — as  Dr.  Gurney  predicted — that  no  one 
would  be  able  to  tell  the  difference  between  dust 
and  himself.  And  Sheridan,  if  Bibbs  read  him 
truly,  would  be  all  the  more  determined  to  "make 
a  man"  of  him,  now  that  there  was  a  man  less  in 

124 


THE   TITRMOIL 

the  family.  To  Bibbs's  knowledge,  no  one  and 
nothing  had  ever  prevented  his  father  from  carrying 
through  his  plans,  once  he  had  determined  upon 
them;  and  Sheridan  was  incapable  of  believing  that 
any  plan  of  his  would  not  work  out  according  to  his 
calculations.  His  nature  unfitted  him  to  accept 
failure.  He  had  the  gift  of  terrible  persistence,  and 
with  unflecked  confidence  that  his  way  was  the  only 
way  he  would  hold  to  that  way  of  "making  a  man" 
of  Bibbs,  who  understood  very  well,  in  his  passive 
and  impersonal  fashion,  that  it  was  a  way  which 
might  make,  not  a  man,  but  dust  of  him.  But  he 
had  no  shudder  for  the  thought. 

He  had  no  shudder  for  that  thought  or  for  any 
other  thought.  The  truth  about  Bibbs  was  in  the 
poem  which  Edith  had  adopted:  he  had  so  thor 
oughly  formed  the  over-sensitive  habit  of  hiding  his 
feelings  that  no  doubt  he  had  forgotten — by  this 
time — where  he  had  put  some  of  them,  especially 
those  which  concerned  himself.  But  he  had  not 
hidden  his  feelings  about  his  father  where  they  could 
not  be  found.  He  was  strange  to  his  father,  but  his 
father  was  not  strange  to  him.  He  knew  that  Sheri 
dan's  plans  were  conceived  in  the  stubborn  belief 
that  they  would  bring  about  a  good  thing  for  Bibbs 
himself;  and  whatever  the  result  was  to  be,  the  son 
had  no  bitterness.  Far  otherwise,  for  as  he  looked 
at  the  big,  woeful  figure,  shaking  and  tortured,  an 
almost  unbearable  pity  laid  hands  upon  Bibbs's 
throat.  Roscoe  stood  blinking,  his  lip  quivering; 
Edith  wept  audibly;  Mrs.  Sheridan  leaned  in  half 
collapse  against  her  husband;  but  Bibbs  knew  that 
his  father  was  the  one  who  cared. 

"5 


THE   TURMQIL 

It  was  over.  Men  in  overalls  "stepped  forward 
with  their  shovels,  and  Bibbs  nodded  quickly  to 
Roscoe,  making  a  slight  gesture  toward  the  line  of 
waiting  carriages.  Roscoe  understood — Bibbs  would 
stay  and  see  the  grave  filled;  the  rest  were  to  go. 
The  groups  began  to  move  away  over  the  turf; 
wheels  creaked  on  the  graveled  drive;  and  one  by 
one  the  carriages  filled  and  departed,  the  horses 
setting  off  at  a  walk.  Bibbs  gazed  steadfastly  at 
the  workmen;  he  knew  that  his  father  kept  looking 
back  as  he  went  toward  the  carriage,  and  that  was 
a  thing  he  did  not  want  to  see.  But  after  a  little 
while  there  were  no  sounds  of  wheels  or  hoofs  on 
the  gravel,  and  Bibbs,  glancing  up,  saw  that  every 
one  had  gone.  A  coup6  had  been  left  for  him,  the 
driver  dozing  patiently. 

The  workmen  placed  the  flowers  and  wreaths  upon 
the  mound  and  about  it,  and  Bibbs  altered  the  po 
sition  of  one  or  two  of  these,  then  stood  looking 
thoughtfully  at  the  grotesque  brilliancy  of  that  festal- 
seeming  hillock  beneath  the  darkening  November 
sky.  "It's  too  bad!"  he  half  whispered,  his  lips 
forming  the  words — and  his  meaning  was  that  it 
was  too  bad  that  the  strong  brother  had  been  the 
one  to  go.  For  this  was  his  last  thought  before  he 
walked  to  the  coupe  and  saw  Mary  Vertrees  stand 
ing,  all  alone,  on  the  other  side  of  the  drive. 

She  had  just  emerged  from  a  grove  of  leafless 
trees  that  grew  on  a  slope  where  the  tombs  were 
many;  and  behind  her  rose  a  multitude  of  the  bar 
baric  and  classic  shapes  we  so  strangely  strew  about 
our  graveyards:  urn-crowned  columns  and  stone- 
draped  obelisks,  shop-carved  angels  and  shop-carved 

126 


THE   TURMOIL 

children,  poising  on  pillars  and  shafts,  all  lifting — 
in  unthought  pathos — their  blind  stoniness  toward 
the  sky.  Against  such  a  background  Bibbs  was  not 
incongruous,  with  his  figure,  in  black,  so  long  and 
slender,  and  his  face  so  long  and  thin  and  white; 
nor  was  the  undertaker's  coupe  out  of  keeping,  with 
the  shabby  driver  dozing  on  the  box  and  the  shaggy 
horses  standing  patiently  in  attitudes  without  hope 
and  without  regret.  But  for  Mary  Vertrees,  here 
was  a  grotesque  setting — she  was  a  vivid,  living 
creature  of  a  beautiful  world.-  And  a  graveyard  is 
not  the  place  for  people  to  look  charming. 

She  also  looked  startled  and  confused,  but  not 
more  startled  and  confused  than  Bibbs.  In  "Edith's  " 
poem  he  had  declared  his  intention  of  hiding  his 
heart  "among  the  stars";  and  in  his  boyhood  one 
day  he  had  successfully  hidden  his  body  in  the  coal- 
pile.  He  had  been  no  comrade  of  other  boys  or  of 
girls,  and  his  acquaintances  of  a  recent  period  were 
only  a  few  fellow-invalids  and  the  nurses  at  the  Hood 
Sanitarium.  All  his  life  Bibbs  had  kept  himself  to 
himself — he  was  but  a  shy  onlooker  in  the  world. 
Nevertheless,  the  startled  gaze  he  bent  upon  the  un 
expected  lady  before  him  had  causes  other  than  his 
shyness  and  her  unexpectedness.  For  Mary  Vertrees 
had  been  a  shining  figure  in  the  little  world  of  late 
given  to  the  view  of  this  humble  and  elusive  outsider, 
and  spectators  sometimes  find  their  hearts  beating 
faster  than  those  of  the  actors  in  the  spectacle.  Thus 
with  Bibbs  now.  He  started  and  stared;  he  lifted 
his  hat  with  incredible  awkwardness,  his  fingers  fum 
bling  at  his  forehead  before  they  found  the  brim. 

f'Mr.  Sheridan,"  said  Mary,  'Tm  afraid  you'll 

r-9  127 


THE   TURMOIL 

have  to  take  me  home  with  you.  I — "  She  stopped, 
not  lacking  a  momentary  awkwardness  of  her  own. 

"Why— why— yes,"  Bibbs  stammered.  "I'll— I'll 
be  de —  Won't  you  get  in?" 

In  that  manner  and  in  that  place  they  exchanged 
their  first  words.  Then  Mary  without  more  ado 
got  into  the  coupe,  and  Bibbs  followed,  closing  the 
door. 

"You're  very  kind,"  she  said,  somewhat  breath 
lessly.  "I  should  have  had  to  walk,  and  it's  begin 
ning  to  get  dark.  It's  three  miles,  I  think." 

"Yes,"  said  Bibbs.  "It — it  is  beginning  to  get 
dark.  I— I  noticed  that." 

"I  ought  to  tell  you — I — "  Mary  began,  confus 
edly.  She  bit  her  lip,  sat  silent  a  moment,  then  spoke 
with  composure.  "It  must  seem  odd,  my — " 

"No,  no!"  Bibbs  protested,  earnestly.  "Not  in 
the — in  the  least." 

"It  does,  though,"  said  Mary.  "I  had  not  in 
tended  to  come  to  the  cemetery,  Mr.  Sheridan,  but 
one  of  the  men  in  charge  at  the  house  came  and  whis 
pered  to  me  that  'the  family  wished  me  to' — I  think 
your  sister  sent  him.  So  I  came.  But  when  we 
reached  here  I — oh,  I  felt  that  perhaps  I — " 

Bibbs  nodded  gravely.    "Yes,  yes,"  he  murmured. 

"I  got  out  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  carriage," 
she  continued.  ' '  I  mean  opposite  from — from  where 
all  of  you  were.  And  I  wandered  off  over  in  the 
other  direction;  and  I  didn't  realize  how  little 
time — it  takes.  From  where  I  was  I  couldn't  see 
the  carriages  leaving — at  least  I  didn't  notice  them. 
So  when  I  got  back,  just  now,  you  were  the  only 
one  here.  I  didn't  know  the  other  people  in  the 

128 


THE   TURMOIL 

carriage  I  came  in,  and  of  course  they  didn't  think 
to  wait  for  me.  That's  why — " 

"Yes,"  said  Bibbs,  "I—"  And  that  seemed  all 
he  had  to  say  just  then. 

Mary  looked  out  through  the  dusty  window.  "I 
think  we'd  better  be  going  home,  if  you  please," 
she  said. 

"Yes,"  Bibbs  agreed,  not  moving.  "It  will  be 
dark  before  we  get  there." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  little  glance.  "I  think  you 
must  be  very  tired,  Mr.  Sheridan;  and  I  know  you 
have  reason  to  be,"  she  said,  gently.  "If  you'll  let 
me,  I'll — "  And  without  explaining  her  purpose  she 
opened  the  door  on  her  side  of  the  coup6  and  leaned 
out. 

Bibbs  stared  in  blank  perplexity,  not  knowing 
what  she  meant  to  do. 

"Driver!"  she  called,  in  her  clear  voice,  loudly. 
"Driver!  We'd  like  to  start,  please!  Driver!  Stop 
at  the  house  just  north  of  Mr.  Sheridan's,  please." 
The  wheels  began  to  move,  and  she  leaned  back 
beside  Bibbs  once  more.  "I  noticed  that  he  was 
asleep  when  we  got  in,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  they 
have  a  great  deal  of  night  work." 

Bibbs  drew  a  long  breath  and  waited  till  he  could 
command  his  voice.  "I've  never  been  able  to 
apologize  quickly,"  he  said,  with  his  accustomed 
slowness,  "because  if  I  try  to  I  stammer.  My 
brother  Roscoe  whipped  me  once,  when  we  were 
boys,  for  stepping  on  his  slate-pencil.  It  took  me 
so  long  to  tell  him  it  was  an  accident,  he  finished 
before  I  did." 

Mary  Vertrees  had  never  heard  anything  quite 

129 


THE   TURMOIL 

like  the  drawling,  gentle  voice  or  the  odd  implication 
that  his  not  noticing  the  motionless  state  of  their 
vehicle  was  an  "accident/'  She  had  formed  a  cas 
ual  impression  of  him,  not  without  sympathy,  but 
at  once  she  discovered  that  he  was  unlike  any  of 
her  cursory  and  vague  imaginings  of  him.  And  sud 
denly  she  saw  a  picture  he  had  not  intended  to  paint 
for  sympathy:  a  sturdy  boy  hammering  a  smaller, 
sickly  boy,  and  the  sickly  boy  unresentful.  Not 
that  picture  alone;  others  flashed  before  her.  In 
stantaneously  she  had  a  glimpse  of  Bibbs's  life  and 
into  his  life.  She  had  a  queer  feeling,  new  to  her 
experience,  of  knowing  him  instantly.  It  startled 
her  a  little;  and  then,  with  some  surprise,  she  real 
ized  that  she  was  glad  he  had  sat  so  long,  after 
getting  into  the  coupe,  before  he  noticed  that  it 
had  not  started.  What  she  did  not  realize,  however, 
was  that  she  had  made  no  response  to  his  apology, 
and  they  passed  out  of  the  cemetery  gates,  neither 
having  spoken  again. 

Bibbs  was  so  content  with  the  silence  he  did  not 
know  that  it  was  silence.  The  dusk,  gathering  in 
their  small  inclosure,  was  filled  with  a  rich  presence 
for  him;  and  presently  it  was  so  dark  that  neither 
of  the  two  could  see  the  other,  nor  did  even  their 
garments  touch.  But  neither  had  any  sense  of  being 
alone.  The  wheels  creaked  steadily,  rumbling  pres 
ently  on  paved  streets;  there  were  the  sounds,  as 
from  a  distance,  of  the  plod-plod  of  the  horses;  and 
sometimes  the  driver  became  audible,  coughing  asth- 
matically,  or  saying,  "You,  Joe!"  with  a  spiritless 
flap  of  the  whip  upon  an  unresponsive  back.  Ob 
longs  of  light  from  the  lamps  at  street-corners  came 

130 


THE   TURMOIL 

swimming  into  the  interior  of  the  coupe  and,  thin 
ning  rapidly  to  lances,  passed  utterly,  leaving  greater 
darkness.  And  yet  neither  of  these  two  last  attend 
ants  at  Jim  Sheridan's  funeral  broke  the  silence. 

It  was  Mary  who  perceived  the  strangeness  of  it 
— too  late.  Abruptly  she  realized  that  for  an  in 
definite  interval  she  had  been  thinking  of  her  com 
panion  and  not  talking  to  him.  "Mr.  Sheridan," 
she  began,  not  knowing  what  she  was  going  to  say, 
but  impelled  to  say  anything,  as  she  realized  the 
queerness  of  this  drive— "Mr.  Sheridan,  I— 

The  coupe  stopped.  "You,  Joe!"  said  the  driver, 
reproachfully,  and  climbed  down  and  opened  the 
door. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  Bibbs  inquired. 
"Lady   said   stop   at   first   house  north  of   Mr. 
Sheridan's,  sir." 

Mary  was  incredulous;    she  felt  that  it  couldn't 
be  true  and  that  it  mustn't  be  true  that  they  had 
driven  all  the  way  without  speaking. 
"What?"  Bibbs  demanded. 

"We're  there,  sir,"  said  the  driver,  sympatheti 
cally.  "Next  house  north  of  Mr.  Sheridan's." 

Bibbs  descended  to  the  curb.  "Why,  yes,"  he1 
said.  "Yes,  you  seem  to  be  right."  And  while  he 
stood  staring  at  the  dimly  illuminated  front  windows 
of  Mr.  Vertrees's  house  Mary  got  out,  unassisted. 

"Let  me  help  you,"  said  Bibbs,  stepping  toward 
her  mechanically;  and  she  was  several  feet  from  the 
coupe  when  he  spoke. 

"Oh  no,"   she  murmured.     "I   think   I   can- 
She  meant  that  she  could  get  out  of  the  coupe  with 
out  help,  but,  perceiving  that  she  had  already  accom- 


THE  TURMOIL 

plished  this  feat,  she  decided  not  to  complete  the 
sentence. 

"You,  Joe!"  cried  the  driver,  angrily,  climbing  to 
his  box.  And  he  rumbled  away  at  his  team's  best 
pace — a,  snail's. 

" Thank  you  for  bringing  me  home,  Mr.  Sheridan," 
said  Mary,  stiffly.  She  did  not  offer  her  hand. 
"Good  night." 

"Good  night,"  Bibbs  said  in  response,  and,  turn 
ing  with  her,  walked  beside  her  to  the  door.  Mary 
made  that  a  short  walk;  she  almost  ran.  Realiza 
tion  of  the  queerness  of  their  drive  was  growing 
upon  her,  beginning  to  shock  her;  she  stepped  aside 
from  the  light  that  fell  through  the  glass  panels  of 
the  door  and  withheld  her  hand  as  it  touched  the 
old-fashioned  bell-handle. 

"I'm  quite  safe,  thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
emphasis.  "Good  night." 

"Good  night,"  said  Bibbs,  and  went  obediently 
When  he  reached  the  street  he  looked  back,  but  she 
had  vanished  within  the  house. 

Moving  slowly  away,  he  caromed  against  two  peo 
ple  who  were  turning  out  from  the  pavement  to  cross 
the  street.  They  were  Roscoe  and  his  wife. 

"Where  are  your  eyes,  Bibbs?"  demanded  Ros 
coe.  "Sleep-walking,  as  usual?" 

But  Sibyl  took  the  wanderer  by  the  arm.  "Come 
over  to  our  house  for  a  little  while,  Bibbs,fr  she 
urged.  "I  want  to — " 

"No,  I'd  better—" 

"Yes.  I  want  you  to.  Your  father's  gone  to 
bed,  and  they're  aU  quiet  over  there — all  worn  out. 
Just  come  for  a  minute." 

132 


THE  TURMOIL 

He  yielded,  and  when  they  were  in  the  house  she 
repeated  herself  with  real  feeling:  "'All  worn  out!' 
Well,  if  anybody  is,  you  are,  Bibbs!  And  I  don't 
wonder;  you've  done  every  bit  of  the  work  of  it. 
You  mustn't  get  down  sick  again.  I'm  going  to 
make  you  take  a  little  brandy." 

He  let  her  have  her  own  way,  following  her  into 
the  dining-room,  and  was  grateful  when  she  brought 
him  a  tiny  glass  filled  from  one  of  the  decanters  ©n 
the  sideboard.  Roscoe  gloomily  poured  for  himself 
a  much  heavier  libation  in  a  larger  glass;  and  the 
two  men  sat,  while  Sibyl  leaned  against  the  side 
board,  reviewing  the  episodes  of  the  day  and  recall 
ing  the  names  of  the  donors  of  flowers  and  wreaths. 
She  pressed  Bibbs  to  remain  longer  when  he  rose  to 
go,  and  then,  as  he  persisted,  she  went  with  him  to 
the  front  door.  He  opened  it,  and  she  said: 

"Bibbs,  you  were  coming  out  of  the  Vertreeses' 
house  when  we  met  you.  How  did  you  happen  to 
be  there?" 

"I  had  only  been  to  the  door,"  he  said.  "Good 
night,  Sibyl." 

"Wait,"  she  insisted.    "We  saw  you  coming  out." 

"I  wasn't,"  he  explained,  moving  to  depart.  "I'd 
just  brought  Miss  Vertrees  home." 

"What?"  she  cried. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  stepped  out  upon  the  porch, 
"that  was  it,  Good  night,  Sibyl." 

"Wait!"  she  said,  following  him  across  the  thresh 
old.  "How  did  that  happen?  I  thought  you  were 
going  to  wait  while  those  men  filled  the — the — " 
She  paused,  but  moved  nearer  him  insistently. 

"I  did  wait.  Miss  Vertrees  was  there,"  he  said, 

133 


THE  TURMOIL 

reluctantly.  "She  had  walked  away  for  a  while 
and  didn't  notice  that  the  carriages  were  leaving. 
When  she  came  back  the  coupe  waiting  for  me  was 
the  only  one  left." 

Sibyl  regarded  him  with  dilating  eyes.  She  spoke 
with  a  slow  breathlessness.  "And  she  drove  home 
from  Jim's  funeral — with  you!" 

Without  warning  she  burst  into  laughter,  clapped 
her  hand  ineffectually  over  her  mouth,  and  ran  back 
uproariously  into  the  house,  hurling  the  door  shut 
behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BIBBS  went  home  pondering.  He  did  not  un 
derstand  why  Sibyl  had  laughed.  The  laugh 
ter  itself  had  been  spontaneous  and  beyond  suspi 
cion,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  only  affected 
the  effort  to  suppress  it  and  that  she  wished  it  to 
be  significant.  Significant  of  what?  And  why  had 
she  wished  to  impress  upon  him  the  fact  of  her  over 
whelming  amusement?  He  found  no  answer,  but 
she  had  succeeded  in  disturbing  him,  and  he  wished 
that  he  had  not  encountered  her. 

At  home,  uncles,  aunts,  and  cousins  from  out  of 
town  were  wandering  about  the  house,  several 
mournfully  admiring  the  "Bay  of  Naples,"  and 
others  occupied  with  the  Moor  and  the  plumbing, 
while  they  waited  for  trains.  Edith  and  her  mother 
had  retired  to  some  upper  fastness,  but  Bibbs  inter 
viewed  Jackson  and  had  the  various  groups  of  rela 
tives  summoned  to  the  dining-room  for  food.  One 
great-uncle,  old  Gideon  Sheridan  from  Boonville, 
could  not  be  found,  and  Bibbs  went  in  search  of  him, 
He  ransacked  the  house,  discovering  the  missing 
antique  at  last  by  accident.  Passing  his  father's 
closed  door  on  tiptoe,  Bibbs  heard  a  murmurous 
sound,  and  paused  to  listen.  The  sound  proved  to 
be  a  quavering  and  rickety  voice,  monotonously 
bleating: 


THE   TURMOIL 

"The  Lo-ord  givuth  and  the  Lo-ord  takuth  away! 
We  got  to  remember  that;  we  got  to  remember 
that!  I'm  a-gittin'  along,  James;  I'm  a-gittin' 
along,  and  I've  seen  a-many  of  'em  go — two  daugh 
ters  and  a  son  the  Lord  give  me,  and  He  has  taken 
all  away.  For  the  Lo-ord  givuth  and  the  Lo-ord 
takuth  away!  Remember  the  words  of  Bildad  the 
Shuhite,  James.  Bildad  the  Shuhite  says,  'He  shall 
have  neither  son  nor  nephew  among  his  people,  nor 
any  remaining  in  his  dwellings.'  Bildad  the  Shu 
hite—" 

Bibbs  opened  the  door  softly.  His  father  was  ly 
ing  upon  the  bed,  in  his  underclothes,  face  down 
ward,  and  Uncle  Gideon  sat  near  by,  swinging  back 
ward  and  forward  in  a  rocking-chair,  stroking  his 
long  white  beard  and  gazing  at  the  ceiling  as  he 
talked.  Bibbs  beckoned  him  urgently,  but  Uncle 
Gideon  paid  no  attention. 

"Bildad  the  Shuhite  spake  and  he  says,  'If  thy 
children  have  sinned  against  Him  and  He  have  cast 
them  away — " 

There  was  a  muffled  explosion  beneath  the  floor, 
and  the  windows  rattled.  The  figure  lying  face 
downward  on  the  bed  did  not  move,  but  Uncle 
Gideon  leaped  from  his  chair.  "My  God!"  he  cried. 
"What's  that?" 

There  came  a  second  explosion,  and  Uncle  Gideon 
ran  out  into  the  hall.  Bibbs  went  to  the  head  of  the 
great  staircase,  and,  looking  down,  discovered  the 
source  of  the  disturbance.  Gideon's  grandson,  a 
boy  of  fourteen,  had  brought  his  camera  to  the 
funeral  and  was  taking  "flash-lights"  of  the  Moor. 
Uncle  Gideon,  reassured  by  Bibbs's  explanation, 

136 


THE   TURMOIL 

would  have  returned  to  finish  his  quotation  from 
Bildad  the  Shuhite,  but  Bibbs  detained  him,  and 
after  a  little  argument  persuaded  him  to  descend  to 
the  dining-room  whither  Bibbs  followed,  after  clos 
ing  the  door  of  his  father's  room. 

He  kept  his  eye  on  Gideon  after  dinner,  diplo 
matically  preventing  several  attempts  on  the  part 
of  that  comforter  to  reascend  the  stairs;  and  it  was 
a  relief  to  Bibbs  when  George  announced  that  an 
automobile  was  waiting  to  convey  the  ancient  man 
and  his  grandson  to  their  train.  They  were  the  last 
to  leave,  and  when  they  had  gone  Bibbs  went  sigh 
ing  to  his  own  room. 

He  stretched  himself  wearily  upon  the  bed,  but 
presently  rose,  went  to  the  window,  and  looked  for 
a  long  time  at  the  darkened  house  where  Mary  Ver- 
trees  lived.  Then  he  opened  his  trunk,  took  there 
from  a  small  note-book  half  filled  with  fragmentary 
scribblings,  and  began  to  write : 

Laughter  after  a  funeral.  In  this  reaction  people  will  laugh 
at  anything  and  at  nothing.  The  band  plays  a  dirge  on  the 
way  to  the  cemetery,  but  when  it  turns  back,  and  the  mourning 
carriages  are  out  of  hearing,  it  strikes  up,  "Darktown  is  Out 
To-night."  That  is  natural — but  there  are  women  whose  laugh 
ter  is  like  the  whirring  of  whips.  Why  is  it  that  certain  kinds 
of  laughter  seem  to  spoil  something  hidden  away  from  the 
laughers?  If  they  do  not  know  of  it,  and  have  never  seen  it, 
how  can  their  laughter  hurt  it?  Yet  it  does. 

Beauty  is  not  out  of  place  among  grave-stones.  It  is  not  out 
of  place  anywhere.  But  a  woman  who  has  been  betrothed  to  a 
'man  would  not  look  beautiful  at  his  funeral.  A  woman  might 
look  beautiful,  though,  at  the  funeral  of  a  man  whom  she  had 
known  and  liked.  And  in  that  case,  too,  she  would  probably 
not  want  to  talk  if  she  drove  home  from  the  cemetery  with  his 
brother;  nor  would  she  want  the  brother  to  talk.  Silence  is 

137 


THE  TURMOIL 

usually  either  stupid  or  timid.  But  for  a  man  who  stammers 
if  he  tries  to  talk  fast,  and  drawls  so  slowly,  when  he  doesn't 
stammer,  that  nobody  has  time  to  listen  to  him,  silence  is 
advisable.  Nevertheless,  too  much  silence  is  open  to  suspicion. 
It  may  be  reticence,  or  it  may  be  a  vacuum.  It  may  be  dignity, 
or  it  may  be  false  teeth. 

Sometimes  an  imperceptible  odor  will  become  perceptible  in 
a  small  inclosure,  such  as  a  closed  carriage.  The  ghost  of  gaso 
lene  rising  from  a  lady's  glove  might  be  sweeter  to  the  man  rid 
ing  beside  her  than  all  the  scents  of  Arcady  in  spring.  It  de 
pends  on  the  lady — but  there  are! 

Three  miles  may  be  three  hundred  milos,  or  it  may  be  three 
feet.  When  it  is  three  feet  you  have  not  time  to  say  a  great 
deal  before  you  reach  the  end  of  it.  Still,  it  may  be  that  one 
should  begin  to  speak. 

No  one  could  help  wishing  to  stay  in  a  world  that  holds 
some  of  the  people  that  are  in  this  world.  There  are  some  so 
wonderful  you  do  not  understand  how  the  dead  could  die.  How 
could  they  let  themselves? 

A  falling  building  does  not  care  who  falls  with  it.  It  does 
not  choose  who  shall  be  upon  its  roof  and  who  shall  not. 

Silence  can  be  golden?  Yes.  But  perhaps  if  a  woman  of 
the  world  should  find  herself  by  accident  sitting  beside  a  man 
for  the  length  of  time  it  must  necessarily  take  two  slow  old 
horses  to  jog  three  miles,  she  might  expect  that  man  to  say 
something  of  some  sort!  Even  if  she  thought  him  a  feeble 
hypochondriac,  even  if  she  had  heard  from  others  that  he  was 
a  disappointment  to  his  own  people,  even  if  she  had  seen  for 
herself  that  he  was  a  useless  and  irritating  encumbrance  every 
where,  she  might  expect  him  at  least  to  speak — she  might 
expect  him  to  open  his  mouth  and  try  to  make  sounds,  if  he 
only  barked.  If  he  did  not  even  try,  but  sat  every  step  of  the 
way  as  dumb  as  a  frozen  fish,  she  might  think  him  a  frozen  fish. 
And  she  might  be  right.  She  might  be  right  if  she  thought  him 
about  as  pleasant  a  companion  as — as  Bildad  the  Shuhite! 

Bibbs  closed  his  note-book,  replacing  it  in  his 
trunk.  Then,  after  a  period  of  melancholy  contem 
plation,  he  undressed,  put  on  a  dressing-gown  and 

138 


THE^TURMOIL 

slippers,  and  went  softly  out  into  the  hall — to  his 
father's  door.  Upon  the  floor  was  a  tray  which 
Bibbs  had  sent  George,  earlier  in  the  evening,  to 
place  upon  a  table  in  Sheridan's  room — but  the  food 
was  untouched.  Bibbs  stood  listening  outside  the 
door  for  several  minutes.  There  came  no  sound 
from  within,  and  he  went  back  to  his  own  room  and 
to  bed. 

In  the  morning  he  woke  to  a  state  of  being  hith 
erto  unknown  in  his  experience.  Sometimes  in  the 
process  of  waking  there  is  a  little  pause — sleep  has 
gone,  but  coherent  thought  has  not  begun.  It  is  a 
curious  half -void,  a  glimpse  of  aphasia;  and  although 
the  person  experiencing  it  may  not  know  for  that 
instant  his  own  name  or  age  or  sex,  he  may  be 
acutely  conscious  of  depression  or  elation.  It  is  the 
moment,  as  we  say,  before  we  "remember";  and 
for  the  first  time  in  Bibbs' s  life  it  came  to  him  bring 
ing  a  vague  happiness.  He  woke  to  a  sense  of  new 
riches ;  he  had  the  feeling  of  a  boy  waking  to  a  birth 
day.  But  when  the  next  moment  brought  him  his 
memory,  he  found  nothing  that  could  explain  his 
exhilaration.  On  the  contrary,  under  the  circum 
stances  it  seemed  grotesquely  unwarranted.  How 
ever,  it  was  a  brief  visitation  and  was  gone  before 
he  had  finished  dressing.  It  left  a  little  trail,  the 
pleased  recollection  of  it  and  the  puzzle  of  it,  which 
remained  unsolved.  And,  in  fact,  waking  happily  in 
the  morning  is  not  usually  the  result  of  a  drive  home 
from  a  funeral.  No  wonder  the  sequence  evaded 
Bibbs  Sheridan! 

His  father  had  gone  when  he  came  down-stairs. 
44 Went  on  down  to  's  office,  jes'  same,"  Jackson 


THE   TURMOIL 

informed  him.  "Came  sat  breakfas'-table,  aH  by 
'mself;  eat  nothin'.  George  bring  nice  breakfas', 
but  he  di'n'  eat  a  thing.  Yessuh,  went  on  down-town, 
jes'  same  he  yoosta  do.  Yessuh,  I  reckon  putty 
much  ev'y- thing  goin'  go  on  same  as  it  yoosta  do." 

It  struck  Bibbs  that  Jackson  was  right.  The  day 
passed  as  other  days  had  passed.  Mrs.  Sheridan 
and  Edith  were  in  black,  and  Mrs.  Sheridan  cried  a 
little,  now  and  then,  but  no  other  external  difference 
was  to  be  seen.  Edith  was  quiet,  but  not  noticeably 
depressed,  and  at  lunch  proved  herself  able  to  argue 
with  her  mother  upon  the  propriety  of  receiving 
calls  in  the  earliest  stages  of  "mourning."  Lunch 
was  as  usual — for  Jim  and  his  father  had  always 
lunched  down-town  —  and  the  afternoon  was  as 
usual.  Bibbs  went  for  his  drive,  and  his  mother 
went  with  him,  as  she  sometimes  did  when  the 
weather  was  pleasant.  Altogether,  the  usualness  of 
things  was  rather  startling  to  Bibbs. 

During  the  drive  Mrs.  Sheridan  talked  fragmen- 
tarily  of  Jim's  childhood.  "But  you  wouldn't  re 
member  about  that,"  she  said,  after  narrating  an 
episode.  "You  were  too  little.  He  was  always  a 
good  boy,  just  like  that.  And  he'd  save  whatever 
papa  gave  him,  and  put  it  in  the  bank.  I  reckon 
it  '11  just  about  kill  your  father  to  put  somebody 
in  his  place  as  president  of  the  Realty  Company, 
Bibbs.  I  know  he  can't  move  Roscoe  over;  he  told 
me  last  week  he'd  already  put  as  much  on  Roscoe 
as  any  one  man  could  handle  and  not  go  crazy.  Oh, 
it's  a  pity — "  She  stopped  to  wipe  her  eyes.  "It's 
a  pity  you  didn't  run  more  with  Jim,  Bibbs,  and 
kind  o*  pick  up  his  ways.  Think  what  it  *d  meant 


THE   TURMOIL 

to  papa  now?  You  never  did  run  with  either 
Roscoe  or  Jim  any,  even  before  you  got  sick.  Of 
course,  you  were  younger;  but  it  always  did  seem 
queer — and  you  three  bein'  brothers  like  that.  I 
don't  believe  I  ever  saw  you  and  Jim  sit  down  to 
gether  for  a  good  talk  in  my  life.'1 

"Mother,  I've  been  away  so  long,"  Bibbs  returned, 
gently.  "And  since  I  came  home  I — " 

"Oh,  I  ain't  reproachin*  you,  Bibbs,"  she  said. 
"Jim  ain't  been  home  much  of  an  evening  since  you 
got  back — what  with  his  work  and  callin'  and  goin' 
to  the  theater  and  places,  and  often  not  even  at  the 
house  for  dinner.  Right  the  evening  before  he  got 
hurt  he  had  his  dinner  at  some  miserable  rest'rant 
down  by  the  Pump  Works,  he  was  so  set  on  over- 
leein'  the  night  work  and  gettin'  everything  finished 
up  right  to  the  minute  he  told  papa  he  would.  I 
reckon  you  might  'a*  put  in  more  time  with  Jim  if 
there'd  been  more  opportunity,  Bibbs.  I  expect  you 
feel  almost  as  if  you  scarcely  really  knew  him  right 
well.1' 

"I  suppose  I  really  didn't,  mother.  He  was  busy, 
you  see,  and  I  hadn't  much  to  say  about  the  things 
that  interested  him,  because  I  don't  know  much 
about  them." 

"It's  a  pity!  Oh,  it's  a  pity!"  she  moaned.  "And 
you'll  have  to  learn  to  know  about  'em  now,  Bibbs! 
I  haven't  said  much  to  you,  because  I  felt  it  was  all 
between  your  father  and  you,  but  I  honestly  do 
believe  it  will  just  kill  him  if  he  has  to  have  any 
more  trouble  on  top  of  all  this!  You  mustn't  let 
him,  Bibbs — you  mustn't!  You  don't  know  how 
he's  grieved  over  you,  and  now  he  can't  stand  any 

141 


THE  TURMOIL 

more — he  just  can't!  Whatever  he  says  for  you  to 
do,  you  do  it,  Bibbs,  you  do  it!  I  want  you  to  prom 
ise  me  you  will." 

"I  would  if  I  could,"  he  said,  sorrowfully. 

"No,  no!  Why  can't  you?"  she  cried,  clutching 
his  arm.  "He  wants  you  to  go  back  to  the  machine- 
shop  and — " 

"And— 'like  it'!"  said  Bibbs. 

"Yes,  that's  it — to  go  in  a  cheerful  spirit.  Dr. 
Gurney  said  it  wouldn't  hurt  you  if  you  went  in  a 
cheerful  spirit — the  doctor  said  that  himself ,  Bibbs. 
So  why  can't  you  do  it?  Can't  you  do  that  much 
for  your  father?  You  ought  to  think  what  he's 
done  for  you.  You  got  a  beautiful  house  to  live  in; 
you  got  automobiles  to  ride  in;  you  got  fur  coats 
and  warm  clothes;  you  been  taken  care  of  all  your 
life.  And  you  don't  know  how  he  worked  for  the 
money  to  give  all  these  things  to  you!  You  don't 
dream  what  he  had  to  go  through  and  what  he  risked 
when  we  were  startin'  out  in  life;  and  you  never 
will  know!  And  now  this  blow  has  fallen  on  him 
out  of  a  clear  sky,  and  you  make  it  out  to  be  a 
hardship  to  do  like  he  wants  you  to!  And  all  on 
earth  he  asks  is  for  you  to  go  back  to  the  work  in 
a  cheerful  spirit,  so  it  won't  hurt  you!  That's  all 
he  asks.  Look,  Bibbs,  we're  gettin'  back  near 
home,  but  before  we  get  there  I  want  you  to  prom 
ise  me  that  you'll  do  what  he  asks  you  to.  Prom 
ise  me!" 

In  her  earnestness  she  cleared  away  her  black 
veil  that  she  might  see  him  better,  and  it  blew  out 
on  the  smoky  wind.  He  readjusted  it  for  her  before 
he  spoke. 

142 


THE  TURMOIL 

"I'll  go  back  in  as  cheerful  a  spirit  as  I  can, 
mother/'  he  said. 

"There!"  she  exclaimed,  satisfied.  "That's  a  good 
boy!  That's  all  I  wanted  you  to  say." 

"Don't  give  me  any  credit,"  he  said,  ruefully. 
" There  isn't  anything  else  for  me  to  do." 

"Now,  don't  begin  talkin'  that  way!" 

"No,  no,"  he  soothed  her.  "We'll  have  to  begin 
to  make  the  spirit  a  cheerful  one.  We  may — " 
They  were  turning  into  their  own  driveway  as  he 
spoke,  and  he  glanced  at  the  old  house  next  door. 
Mary  Vertrees  was  visible  in  the  twilight,  standing 
upon  the  front  steps,  bareheaded,  the  door  open 
behind  her.  She  bowed  gravely. 

"*We  may' — what?"  asked  Mrs.  Sheridan,  with 
a  slight  impatience 

"What  is  it,  mother?" 

"You  said,  'We  may,'  and  didn't  finish  what 
you  were  savin'." 

"Did  I?"  said  Bibbs, blankly.  "Well,  what  were 
we  saying?" 

"Of  all  the  queer  boys!"  she  cried.  "You  always 
were.  Always!  You  haven't  forgot  what  you  just 
promised  me,  have  you?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  as  the  car  stopped.  "No, 
the  spirit  will  be  as  cheerful  as  the  flesh  will  let  it, 
mother.  It  won't  do  to  behave  like — " 

His  voice  was  low,  and  in  her  movement  to 
descend  from  the  car  she  failed  to  hear  his  final 
words. 

"Behave  like  who,  Bibbs?" 

"Nothing." 

But  she  was  fretful  in  her  grief.     "You  said  it 

10  143 


THE   TURMOIL 

wouldn't  do  to  behave  like  somebody.  Behave  like 
who?" 

"It  was  just  nonsense,"  he  explained,  turning  to 
go  in.  "An  obscure  person  I  don't  think  much  of 
lately." 

"Behave  like  who?"  she  repeated,  and  upon  his 
yielding  to  her  petulant  insistence,  she  made  up  her 
mind  that  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  tell  Dr. 
Gurney  about  it. 

"Like  Bildad  the  Shuhite!"  was  what  Bibbs  said. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

outward  usualness  of  things  continued  after 
dinner.  It  was  Sheridan's  custom  to  read  the 
evening  paper  beside  the  fire  in  the  library,  while 
his  wife,  sitting  near  by,  either  sewed  (from  old 
habit)  or  allowed  herself  to  be  repeatedly  baffled  by 
one  of  the  simpler  forms  of  solitaire.  To-night  she 
did  neither,  but  sat  in  her  customary  chair,  gazing 
at  the  fire,  while  Sheridan  let  the  unfolded  paper 
rest  upon  his  lap,  though  now  and  then  he  lifted  it, 
as  if  to  read,  and  let  it  fall  back  upon  his  knees 
again.  Bibbs  came  in  noiselessly  and  sat  in  a  cor 
ner,  doing  nothing;  and  from  a  "reception-room" 
across  the  hall  an  indistinct  vocal  murmur  became 
just  audible  at  intervals.  Once,  when  this  mur 
mur  grew  louder,  under  stress  of  some  irrepressible 
merriment,  Edith's  voice  could  be  heard — "Bobby, 
aren't  you  awful!"  and  Sheridan  glanced  across  at 
his  wife  appealingly. 

She  rose  at  once  and  went  into  the  "reception- 
room";  there  was  a  flurry  of  whispering,  and  the 
sound  of  tiptoeing  in  the  hall — Edith  and  her  suitor 
changing  quarters  to  a  more  distant  room.  Mrs. 
Sheridan  returned  to  her  chair  in  the  library. 

"They  won't  bother  you  any  more,  papa,"  she 
said,  in  a  comforting  voice.  "She  told  me  at  lunch 
he'd  'phoned  he  wanted  to  come  up  this  evening, 


THE   TURMOIL 

and  I  said  I  thought  he'd  better  wait  a  few  days, 
but  she  said  she'd  already  told  him  he  could."  She 
paused,  then  added,  rather  guiltily:  "I  got  kind  of 
a  notion  maybe  Roscoe  don't  like  him  as  much 
as  he  used  to.  Maybe — maybe  you  better  ask 
Roscoe,  papa."  And  as  Sheridan  nodded  solemnly, 
she  concluded,  in  haste:  " Don't  say  I  said  to.  I 
might  be  wrong  about  it,  anyway." 

He  nodded  again,  and  they  sat  for  some  time  in 
a  silence  which  Mrs.  Sheridan  broke  with  a  little 
sniff,  having  fallen  into  a  reverie  that  brought  tears. 
"That  Miss  Vertrees  was  a  good  girl,"  she  said, 
"She  was  all  right." 

Her  husband  evidently  had  no  difficulty  in  fok 
lowing  her  train  of  thought,  for  he  nodded  once 
more,  affirmatively. 

"Did  you —  How  did  you  fix  it  about  the — the* 
Realty  Company?"  she  faltered.  "Did  you—" 

He  rose  heavily,  helping  himself  to  his  feet  by 
the  arms  of  his  chair.  "I  fixed  it,"  he  said,  in  a 
husky  voice.  * '  I  moved  Cantwell  up,  and  put  John 
ston  in  Cantwell's  place,  and  split  up  Johnston's 
work  among  four  men  with  salaries  high  enough  to 
take  it."  He  went  to  her,  put  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  drew  a  long,  audible,  tremulous  breath. 
"It's  my  bedtime,  mamma;  I'm  goin'  up."  He 
dropped  the  hand  from  her  shoulder  and  moved 
slowly  away,  but  when  he  reached  the  door  he 
stopped  and  spoke  again,  without  turning  to  look 
at  her.  "The  Realty  Company  '11  go  right  on  just 
the  same,"  he  said.  "It's  like — it's  like  sand, 
mamma.  It  puts  me  in  mind  of  chuldern  playin' 
in  a  sand-pile.  One  of  'em  sticks  his  finger  in  the 

146 


THE   TURMOIL 

sand  and  makes  a  hole,  and  another  of  'em  '11  pat 
the  place  with  his  hand,  and  all  the  little  grains  of 
sand  run  in  and  fill  it  up  and  settle  against  one 
another;  and  then,  right  away  it's  flat  on  top  again, 
and  you  can't  tell  there  ever  was  a  hole  there.  The 
Realty  Company  '11  go  on  all  right,  mamma.  There 
ain't  anything  anywhere,  I  reckon,  that  wouldn't 
go  right  on — just  the  same." 

And  he  passed  out  slowly  into  the  hall;  then  they 
heard  his  heavy  tread  upon  the  stairs. 

Mrs.  Sheridan,  rising  to  follow  him,  turned  a  pit 
eous  face  to  her  son.  "It's  so  forlorn,"  she  said, 
chokingly.  "That's  the  first  time  he  spoke  since 
he  came  in  the  house  this  evening.  I  know  it  must 
'a'  hurt  him  to  hear  Edith  laughin'  with  that  Lam- 
horn.  She'd  oughtn't  to  let  him  come,  right  the  very 
first  evening  this  way;  she'd  oughtn't  to  done  it! 
She  just  seems  to  lose  her  head  over  him,  and  it 
scares  me.  You  heard  what  Sibyl  said  the  other 
day,  and — and  you  heard  what — what — " 

"What  Edith  said  to  Sibyl?"  Bibbs  finished  the 
sentence  for  her. 

"We  can't  have  any  trouble  o'  that  kind!"  she 
wailed.  "Oh,  it  looks  as  if  movin'  up  to  this  New 
House  had  brought  us  awful  bad  luck!  It  scares 
me!"  She  put  both  her  hands  over  her  face.  "Oh, 
Bibbs,  Bibbs!  if  you  only  wasn't  so  queer!  If  you 
could  only  been  a  kind  of  dependable  son!  I  don't 
know  what  we're  all  comin'  to!"  And,  weeping,  she 
followed  her  husband. 

Bibbs  gazed  for  a  while  at  the  fire;  then  he  rose 
abruptly,  like  a  man  who  has  come  to  a  decision, 
and  briskly  sought  the  room — it  was  called  "the 

147 


THE   TURMOIL 

smoking-room" — where  Edith  sat  with  Mr.  Lam- 
horn.  They  looked  up  in  no  welcoming  manner,  at 
Bibbs's  entrance,  and  moved  their  chairs  to  a  less 
conspicuous  adjacency. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Bibbs,  pleasantly;  and  he 
seated  himself  in  a  leather  easy-chair  near  them. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Edith,  plainly  astonished. 

"Nothing,"  he  returned,  smiling. 

She  frowned.  "Did  you  want  something?"  she 
asked. 

"Nothing  in  the  world.  Father  and  mother  have 
gone  up-stairs;  I  sha'n't  be  going  up  for  several 
hours,  and  there  didn't  seem  to  be  anybody  left  for 
me  to  chat  with  except  you  and  Mr.  Lamhorn." 

'"Chat  with'!"  she  echoed,  incredulously. 

"I  can  talk  about  almost  anything,"  said  Bibbs 
with  an  air  of  genial  politeness.  "It  doesn't  matter 
to  me.  I  don't  know  much  about  business — if  that's 
what  you  happened  to  be  talking  about.  But  you 
aren't  in  business,  are  you,  Mr.  Lamhorn?" 

"Not  now,"  returned  Lamhorn,  shortly. 

"I'm  not,  either,"  said  Bibbs.  "It  was  getting 
cloudier  than  usual,  I  noticed,  just  before  dark,  and 
there  was  wind  from  the  southwest.  Rain  to-mor 
row,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised." 

He  seemed  to  feel  that  he  had  begun  a  conversation 
the  support  of  which  had  now  become  the  pleasur 
able  duty  of  other  parties;  and  he  sat  expectantly, 
looking  first  at  his  sister,  then  at  Lamhorn,  as  if  im 
plying  that  it  was  their  turn  to  speak.  Edith  re 
turned  his  gaze  with  a  mixture  of  astonishment  and 
increasing  anger,  while  Mr.  Lamhorn  was  obviously 
disturbed,  though  Bibbs  had  been  as  considerate  as 

148 


THEY  LOOKED   UP   IN   NO   WELCOMING   MANNER   AT     BIBB'S   ENTRANCE 


THE   TURMOIL 

possible  in  presenting  the  weather  as  a  topic.  Bibbs 
had  perceived  that  Lamhora  had  nothing  in  his 
mind  at  any  time  except  ''personalities" — he  could 
talk  about  people  and  he  could  make  love.  Bibbs, 
wishing  to  be  courteous,  offered  the  weather. 

Lamhorn  refused  it,  and  concluded  from  Bibbs 's 
luxurious  attitude  in  the  leather  chair  that  this  half- 
crazy  brother  was  a  permanent  fixture  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening.  There  was  no  reason  to  hope  that 
he  would  move,  and  Lamhorn  found  himself  in 
danger  of  looking  silly. 

"I  was  just  going,"  he  said,  rising. 

"Oh  no!"  Edith  cried,  sharply. 

"Yes.    Goodnight!    I  think  I—" 

"Too  bad,"  said  Bibbs,  genially,  walking  to  the 
door  with  the  visitor,  while  Edith  stood  staring  as 
the  two  disappeared  in  the  hall.  She  heard  Bibbs 
offering  to  "help"  Lamhorn  with  his  overcoat  and 
the  latter  rather  curtly  declining  assistance,  these 
episodes  of  departure  being  followed  by  the  closing 
of  the  outer  door.  She  ran  into  the  hall. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  she  cried,  furi 
ously.  "What  do  you  mean?  How  did  you  dare 
come  in  there  when  you  knew — " 

Her  voice  broke;  she  made  a  gesture  of  rage  and 

despair,  and  ran  up  the  stairs,  sobbing.    She  fled  to 

,  her  mother's  room,  and  when  Bibbs  came  up,  a  few 

minutes  later,  Mrs.  Sheridan  met  him  at  his  door. 

"Oh,  Bibbs,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  woefully, 
' '  you'd  oughtn't  to  distress  your  sister !  She  says  you 
drove  that  young  man  right  out  of  the  house.  You'd 
ought  to  been  more  considerate." 

Bibbs. smiled  faintly,  noting  that  Edith's  door  was. 

149.,, 


THE   TURMOIL 

open,  with  Edith's  naive  shadow  motionless  across 
its  threshold.  "Yes,"  he  said.  "He  doesn't  ap 
pear  to  be  much  of  a  'man's  man.'  He  ran  at  just 
a  glimpse  of  one." 

Edith's  shadow  moved;  her  voice  came  quavering: 
"You  call  yourself  one?" 

"No,  no,"  he  answered.  "I  said,  'just  a  glimpse 
of  one.'  I  didn't  claim — "  But  her  door  slammed 
angrily;  and  he  turned  to  his  mother. 

' '  There, ' '  he  said,  sighing.  ' '  That's  almost  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  ever  tried  to  be  a  man  of  action, 
mother,  and  I  succeeded  perfectly  in  what  I  tried 
to  do.  As  a  consequence  I  feel  like  a  horse-thief!" 

"You  hurt  her  feelin's,"  she  groaned.  "You  must 
'a'  gone  at  it  too  rough,  Bibbs." 

He  looked  upon  her  wanly.  "That's  my  trouble, 
mother,"  he  murmured.  "I'm  a  plain,  blunt  fellow. 
I  have  rough  ways,  and  I'm  a  rough  man." 

For  once  she  perceived  some  meaning  in  his  queer- 
ness.  "Hush  your  nonsense!"  she  said,  good-natur 
edly,  the  astral  of  a  troubled  smile  appearing.  "You 
go  to  bed." 

He  kissed  her  and  obeyed. 

Edith  gave  him  a  cold  greeting  the  next  morning 
at  the  breakfast-table. 

"You  mustn't  do  that  under  a  misapprehension," 
he  warned  her,  when  they  were  alone  in  the  dining- 
room. 

"Do  what  under  a  what?"  she  asked. 

"Speak  to  me.  I  came  into  the  smoking-room  last 
night  'on  purpose,'"  he  told  her,  gravely.  "I  have 
a  prejudice  against  that  young  man." 

150 


THE   TURMOIL 

She  laughed.  "I  guess  you  think  it  means  a  great 
deal  who  you  have  prejudices  against!"  In  mockery 
she  adopted  the  manner  of  one  who  implores.  ' '  Bibbs, 
for  pity's  sake  promise  me,  don't  use  your  influence 
with  papa  against  him!"  And  she  laughed  louder. 

'  '  Listen, ' '  he  said,  with  peculiar  earnestness.  "  I  '11 
tell  you  now,  because  —  because  I've  decided  I'm 
one  of  the  family."  And  then,  as  if  the  earnestness 
were  too  heavy  for  him  to  carry  it  further,  he  con 
tinued,  in  his  usual  tone,  "I'm  drunk  with  power, 
Edith." 

"What  do  you  want  to  tell  me?"  she  demanded, 
brusquely. 

"Lamhorn  made  love  to  Sibyl,"  he  said. 

Edith  hooted.  "She  did  to  him!  And  because 
you  overheard  that  spat  between  us  the  other  day 
when  I  the  same  as  accused  her  of  it,  and  said  some 
thing  like  that  to  you  afterward — " 

"No,"  he  said,  gravely.    "I  know." 

"How?" 

"I  was  there,  one  day  a  week  ago,  with  Roscoe, 
and  I  heard  Sibyl  and  Lamhorn — " 

Edith  screamed  with  laughter.  "You  were  with 
Roscoe — and  you  heard  Lamhorn  making  love  to 
Sibyl!" 

"No.    I  heard  them  quarreling." 

"You're  funnier  than  ever,  Bibbs!"  she  cried. 
"You  say  he  made  love  to  her  because  you  heard 
them  quarreling!" 

' '  That's  it.  If  you  want  to  know  what's  ' between ' 
people,  you  can — by  the  way  they  quarrel." 

"You'll  kiU  me,  Bibbs!  What  were  they  quarrel 
ing  about?" 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Nothing.  That's  how  I  knew.  People  who 
quarrel  over  nothing! — it's  always  certain — " 

Edith  stopped  laughing  abruptly,  but  continued 
her  mockery.  "You  ought  to  know.  You've  had 
so  much  experience,  yourself!" 

"I  haven't  any,  Edith,"  he  said.  "My  life  has 
been  about  as  exciting  as  an  incubator  chicken's. 
But  I  look  out  through  the  glass  at  things." 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  "if  you  look  out  through 
the  glass  you  must  know  what  effect  such  stuff  would 
have  upon  me!"  She  rose,  visibly  agitated.  "What 
if  it  was  true?"  she  demanded,  bitterly.  "What  if 
it  was  true  a  hundred  times  over?  You  sit  there 
with  your  silly  face  half  ready  to  giggle  and  half 
ready  to  sniffle,  and  tell  me  stories  like  that,  about 
Sibyl  picking  on  Bobby  Lamhorn  and  worrying  him 
to  death,  and  you  think  it  matters  to  me?  What  if 
I  already  knew  all  about  their  'quarreling'?  What 
if  I  understood  why  she — "  She  broke  off  with  a 
violent  gesture,  a  sweep  of  her  arm  extended  at  full 
length,  as  if  she  hurled  something  to  the  ground. 
"Do  you  think  a  girl  that  really  cared  for  a  man 
would  pay  any  attention  to  that?  Or  to  you,  Bibbs 
Sheridan!" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  his  gaze  was  as 
keen  as  it  was  steady.  She  met  it  with  unwavering 
pride.  Finally  he  nodded  slowly,  as  if  she  had  spoken 
and  he  meant  to  agree  with  what  she  said. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said.  "I  won't  come  into  the  smok 
ing-room  again.  I'm  sorry,  Edith.  Nobody  can 
make  you  see  anything  now.  You'll  never  see  until 
you  see  for  yourself.  The  rest  of  us  will  do  better, 
ioukeep  out  of  it— especially  me!" 

152. 


THE  TURMOIL 

* '  That's  sensible, ' '  she  responded,  curtly.  ' '  You're 
most  surprising  of  all  when  you're  sensible,  Bibbs." 

"  Yes,"  he  sighed.  " I'm  a  dull  dog.  Shake  hands 
and  forgive  me,  Edith." 

Thawing  so  far  as  to  smile,  she  underwent  this 
brief  ceremony,  and  George  appeared,  summoning 
Bibbs  to  the  library;  Dr.  Gurney  was  waiting  there, 
he  announced.  And  Bibbs  gave  his  sister  a  shy  but 
friendly  touch  upon  the  shoulder  as  a  complement 
to  the  handshaking,  and  left  her. 

Dr.  Gurney  was  sitting  by  the  log  fire,  alone  in 
the  room,  and  he  merely  glanced  over  his  shoulder 
when  his  patient  came  in.  He  was  not  over  fifty, 
in  spite  of  Sheridan's  habitual  "ole  Doc  Gurney." 
He  was  gray,  however,  almost  as  thin  as  Bibbs, 
and  nearly  always  he  looked  drowsy. 

"Your  father  telephoned  me  yesterday  afternoon, 
Bibbs,"  he  said,  not  rising.  "Wants  me  to  'look 
you  over*  again.  Come  around  here  in  front  of  me 
— between  me  and  the  fire.  I  want  to  see  if  I  can 
see  through  you." 

"You  mean  you're  too  sleepy  to  move,"  returned 
Bibbs,  complying.  "I  think  you'll  notice  that  I'm 
getting  worse." 

"Taken  on  about  twelve  pounds,"  said  Gurney. 
"Thirteen,  maybe." 

"Twelve." 

"Well,  it  won't  do."  The  doctor  rubbed  his  eye 
lids.  "You're  so  much  better  I'll  have  to  use  some 
machinery  on  you  before  we  can  know  just  where 
you  are.  You  come  down  to  my  place  this  after 
noon.  Walk  down — all  the  way.  I  suppose  you 
know  why  your  father  wants  to  know." 


THE   TURMOIL 

Bibbs  nodded.    "Machine-shop." 

"Still  hate  it?" 

Bibbs  nodded  again. 

"Don't  blame  you!"  the  doctor  grunted.  "Yes, 
I  expect  it  11  make  a  lump  in  your  gizzard  again. 
Well,  what  do  you  say?  Shall  I  tell  him  you've  got 
the  old  lump  there  yet?  You  still  want  to  write,  do 
you?" 

"What's  the  use?"  Bibbs  said,  smiling  ruefully. 
"My  kind  of  writing!" 

"Yes,"  the  doctor  agreed.  "I  suppose  if  you 
broke  away  and  lived  on  roots  and  berries  until  you 
began  to  'attract  the  favorable  attention  of  editors' 
you  might  be  able  to  hope  for  an  income  of  four  or 
five  hundred  dollars  a  year  by  the  time  you're  fifty." 

"That's  about  it,"  Bibbs  murmured. 

"Of  course  I  know  what  you  want  to  do,"  said 
Gurney,  drowsily.  "You  don't  hate  the  machine- 
shop  only;  you  hate  the  whole  show — the  noise  and 
jar  and  dirt,  the  scramble — the  whole  bloomin'  craze 
to  'get  on.'  You'd  like  to  go  somewhere  in  Algiers, 
or  to  Taormina,  perhaps,  and  bask  on  a  balcony, 
smelling  flowers  and  writing  sonnets.  You'd  grow 
fat  on  it  and  have  a  delicate  little  life  all  to  yourself. 
Well,  what  do  you  say?  I  can  lie  like  sixty,  Bibbs! 
Shall  I  tell  your  father  he'll  lose  another  of  his  boys 
if  you  don't  go  to  Sicily?" 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  Sicily,"  said  Bibbs.  "I 
want  to  stay  right  here." 

The  doctor's  drowsiness  disappeared  for  a  moment, 
and  he  gave  his  patient  a  sharp  glance.  "It's  a 
risk,"  he  said.  "I  think  we'll  find  you're  so  much 
better  he'll  send  you  back  to  the  shop  pretty  quick. 

i54 


THE   TURMOIL 

Something's  got  hold  of  you  lately;  you're  not  quite 
so  lackadaisical  as  you  used  to  be.  But  I  warn  you : 
I  think  the  shop  will  knock  you  just  as  it  did  before, 
and  perhaps  even  harder,  Bibbs." 

He  rose,  shook  himself,  and  rubbed  his  eyelids. 
"Well,  when  we  go  over  you  this  afternoon  what 
are  we  going  to  say  about  it?" 

"Tell  him  I'm  ready,"  said  Bibbs,  looking  at  the 
floor. 

"Oh  no,"  Gurney  laughed.  "Not  quite  yet;  but 
you  may  be  almost.  We'll  see.  Don't  forget  I  said 
to  walk  down." 

And  when  the  examination  was  concluded,  that 
afternoon,  the  doctor  informed  Bibbs  that  the  result 
was  much  too  satisfactory  to  be  pleasing.  "Here's 
a  new  'situation*  for  a  one-act  farce,"  he  said, 
gloomily,  to  his  next  patient  when  Bibbs  had  gone. 
'Doctor  tells  a  man  he's  well,  and  that's  his  death 
sentence,  likely.  Dam'  funny  world!" 

Bibbs  decided  to  walk  home,  though  Gurney  had 
not  instructed  him  upon  this  point.  In  fact,  Gurney 
seemed  to  have  no  more  instructions  on  any  point,  so 
discouraging  was  the  young  man's  improvement. 
It  was  a  dingy  afternoon,  and  the  smoke  was  evi 
dent  not  only  to  Bibbs's  sight,  but  to  his  nostrils, 
though  most  of  the  pedestrians  were  so  saturated 
with  the  smell  that  they  could  no  longer  detect  it. 
Nearly  all  of  them  walked  hurriedly,  too  intent  upon 
their  destinations  to  be  more  than  half  aware  of  the 
wayside;  they  wore  the  expressions  of  people  under 
a  vague  yet  constant  strain.  They  were  all  lightly 
powdered,  inside  and  out,  with  fine  dust  and  grit 
from  the  hard-paved  streets,  and  they  were  unaware 


THE   TURMOIL 

of  that  also.  They  did  not  even  notice  that  they 
saw  the  smoke,  though  the  thickened  air  was  like 
a  shrouding  mist.  And  when  Bibbs  passed  the  new 
''Sheridan  Apartments,"  now  almost  completed,  he 
observed  that  the  marble  of  the  vestibule  was  al 
ready  streaky  with  soot,  like  his  gloves,  which  were 
new. 

That  recalled  to  him  the  faint  odor  of  gasolene 
in  the  coupe  on  the  way  from  his  brother's  funeral, 
and  this  incited  a  train  of  thought  which  continued 
till  he  reached  the  vicinity  of  his  home.  His  route 
was  by  a  street  parallel  to  that  on  which  the  New 
House  fronted,  and  in  his  preoccupation  he  walked 
a  block  farther  than  he  intended,  so  that,  having 
crossed  to  his  own  street,  he  approached  the  New 
House  from  the  north,  and  as  he  came  to  the  corner 
of  Mr.  Vertrees's  lot  Mr.  Vertrees's  daughter  emerged 
from  the  front  door  and  walked  thoughtfully  down 
the  path  to  the  old  picket  gate.  She  was  uncon 
scious  of  the  approach  of  the  pedestrian  from  the 
north,  and  did  not  see  him  until  she  had  opened  the 
gate  and  he  was  almost  beside  her.  Then  she  looked 
up,  and  as  she  saw  him  she  started  visibly.  And 
if  this  thing  had  happened  to  Robert  Lamhorn,  he 
would  have  had  a  thought  far  beyond  the  horizon 
of  faint-hearted  Bibbs's  thoughts.  Lamhorn,  indeed, 
would  have  spoken  his  thought.  He  would  have 
said: 

"You  jumped  because  you  were  thinking  of  me!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

MARY  was  the  picture  of  a  lady  flustered.  She 
stood  with  one  hand  closing  the  gate  behind 
her,  and  she  had  turned  to  go  in  the  direction  Bibbs 
was  walking.  There  appeared  to  be  nothing  for  it 
but  that  they  should  walk  together,  at  least  as  far 
as  the  New  House.  But  Bibbs  had  paused  in  his 
slow  stride,  and  there  elapsed  an  instant  before 
either  spoke  or  moved — it  was  no  longer  than  that, 
and  yet  it  sufficed  for  each  to  seem  to  say,  by  look 
and  attitude,  "Why,  it's  you!" 

Then  they  both  spoke  at  once,  each  hurriedly 
pronouncing  the  other's  name  as  if  about  to  de 
liver  a  message  of  importance.  Then  both  came  to 
a  stop  simultaneously,  but  Bibbs  made  a  heroic 
effort,  and  as  they  began  to  walk  on  together  he 
contrived  to  find  his  voice. 

"I — I — hate  a  frozen  fish  myself,"  he  said.  "I 
think  three  miles  was  too  long  for  you  to  put  up 
with  one." 

"Good  gracious!"  she  cried,  turning  to  him  a  glow 
ing  face  from  which  restraint  and  embarrassment  had 
suddenly  fled.  "Mr.  Sheridan,  you're  lovely  to  put 
it  that  way.  But  it's  always  the  girl's  place  to  say 
it's  turning  cooler!  I  ought  to  have  been  the  one  to 
show  that  we  didn't  know  each  other  well  enough 
not  to  say  something!  It  was  an  imposition  for  me 


THE   TURMOIL 

to  have  made  you  bring  me  home,  and  after  I  went 
into  the  house  I  decided  I  should  have  walked.  Be 
sides,  it  wasn't  three  miles  to  the  car-line.  I  never 
thought  of  it!" 

"No,"  said  Bibbs,  earnestly.  "I  didn't,  either. 
I  might  have  said  something  if  I'd  thought  of  any 
thing.  I'm  talking  now,  though;  I  must  remember 
that,  and  not  worry  about  it  later.  I  think  I'm 
talking,  though  it  doesn't  sound  intelligent  even  to 
me.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  if  I  ever  met  you  again 
I'd  turn  on  my  voice  and  keep  it  going,  no  matter 
what  it  said.  I — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  laughter,  and  Mary 
Vertrees's  laugh  was  one  which  Bibbs's  father  had 
declared,  after  the  house-warming,  "a  cripple  would 
crawl  five  miles  to  hear."  And  at  the  merry  lilting 
of  it  Bibbs's  father's  son  took  heart  to  forget  some 
of  his  trepidation.  "I'll  be  any  kind  of  idiot,"  he 
said,  "if  you'll  laugh  at  me  some  more.  It  won't 
be  difficult  for  me." 

She  did;  and  Bibbs's  cheeks  showed  a  little  actual 
color,  which  Mary  perceived.  It  recalled  to  her,  by 
contrast,  her  careless  and  irritated  description  of 
him  to  her  mother  just  after  she  had  seen  him  for 
the  first  time,  "Rather  tragic  and  altogether  im 
possible."  It  seemed  to  her  now  that  she  must 
have  been  blind. 

They  had  passed  the  New  House  without  either 
of  them  showing — or  possessing — any  consciousness 
that  it  had  been  the  destination  of  one  of  them. 

"I'll  keep  on  talking,"  Bibbs  continued,  cheerful 
ly,  "and  you  keep  on  laughing.  I'm  amounting  to 
something  in  the  world  this  afternoon.  I'm  making 

158 


THE   TURMOIL 

a  noise,  and  that  makes  you  make  music.  Don't  be 
bothered  by  my  bleating  out  such  things  as  that. 
I'm  really  frightened,  and  that  makes  me  bleat  any 
thing.  I'm  frightened  about  two  things:  I'm  afraid 
of  what  I'll  think  of  myself  later  if  I  don't  keep 
talking — talking  now,  I  mean — and  I'm  afraid  of 
what  I'll  think  of  myself  if  I  do.  And  besides  these 
two  things,  I'm  frightened,  anyhow.  I  don't  re 
member  talking  as  much  as  this  more  than  once  or 
twice  in  my  life.  I  suppose  it  was  always  in  me  to 
do  it,  though,  the  first  time  I  met  any  one  who 
didn't  know  me  well  enough  not  to  listen. " 

"But  you're  not  really  talking  to  me,"  said  Mary. 
"  You're  just  thinking  aloud." 

"No,"  he  returned,  gravely.  "I'm  not  thinking 
at  all;  I'm  only  making  vocal  sounds  because  I  be 
lieve  it's  more  mannerly.  I  seem  to  be  the  subject 
of  what  little  meaning  they  possess,  and  I'd  like  to 
change  it,  but  I  don't  know  how.  I  haven't  any  ex 
perience  in  talking,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  manage 
it." 

"You  needn't  change  the  subject  on  my  account, 
Mr.  Sheridan,"  she  said.  "Not  even  if  you  really 
talked  about  yourself."  She  turned  her  face  toward 
him  as  she  spoke,  and  Bibbs  caught  his  breath;  he 
was  pathetically  amazed  by  the  look  she  gave  him. 
It  was  a  glowing  look,  warmly  friendly  and  under 
standing,  and,  what  almost  shocked  him,  it  was  an 
eagerly  interested  look.  Bibbs  was  not  accustomed 
to  anything  like  that. 

"I — you — I — I'm — "  he  stammered,  and  the 
faint  color  in  his  cheeks  grew  almost  vivid. 

She  was  still  looking  at  him,  and  she  saw  the 


THE   TURMOIL 

strange  radiance  that  came  into  his  face.  There 
was  something  about  him,  too,  that  explained  how 
"queer"  many  people  might  think  him;  but  he  did 
not  seem  "queer"  to  Mary  Vertrees;  he  seemed  the 
most  quaintly  natural  person  she  had  ever  met. 

He  waited,  and  became  coherent.  "You  say 
something  now,"  he  said.  "I  don't  even  belong  in 
the  chorus,  and  here  I  am,  trying  to  sing  the  funny 
man's  solo!  You — " 

"No,"  she  interrupted.  "I'd  rather  play  your 
accompaniment . ' ' 

"I'll  stop  and  listen  to  it,  then." 

"Perhaps — "  she  began,  but  after  pausing 
thoughtfully  she  made  a  gesture  with  her  muff,  in 
dicating  a  large  brick  church  which  they  were  ap 
proaching.  "Do  you  see  that  church,  Mr.  Sheri 
dan?" 

"I  suppose  I  could,"  he  answered  in  simple  truth 
fulness,  looking  at  her.  "But  I  don't  want  to. 
Once,  when  I  was  ill,  the  nurse  told  me  I'd  better 
say  anything  that  was  on  my  mind,  and  I  got  the 
habit.  The  other  reason  I  don't  want  to  see  the 
church  is  that  I  have  a  feeling  it's  where  you're 
going,  and  where  I'll  be  sent  back." 

She  shook  her  head  in  cheery  negation.  "Not 
unless  you  want  to  be.  Would  you  like  to  come 
with  me?" 

' '  Why— why— yes, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Anywhere !' '  And 
again  it  was  apparent  that  he  spoke  in  simple 
truthfulness. 

"Then  come — if  you  care  for  organ  music.  The 
organist  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and  sometimes  he 
plays  for  me.  He's  a  dear  old  man.  He  had  a  de- 

160 


THE   TURMOIL 

gree  from  Bonn,  and  was  a  professor  afterward,  but 
he  gave  up  everything  for  music.  That's  he,  wait 
ing  in  the  doorway.  He  looks  like  Beethoven, 
doesn't  he?  I  think  he  knows  that,  perhaps,  and 
enjoys  it  a  little.  I  hope  so." 

"Yes,"  said  Bibbs,  as  they  reached  the  church 
steps.  "I  think  Beethoven  would  like  it,  too.  It 
must  be  pleasant  to  look  like  other  people." 

"I  haven't  kept  you?"  Mary  said  to  the  organist. 

"No,  no,"  he  answered,  heartily.  "I  would  not 
mind  so  only  you  should  shooer  come!" 

"This  is  Mr.  Sheridan,  Dr.  Kraft.  He  has  come 
to  listen  with  me." 

The  organist  looked  bluntly  surprised.  "Iss  that 
so  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "Well,  I  am  glad  if  you  wish 
him,  and  if  he  can  stant  my  liddle  playink.  He  iss 
musician  himself,  then,  of  course." 

"No,"  said  Bibbs,  as  the  three  entered  the  church 
together.  "I— I  played  the— I  tried  to  play- 
Fortunately  he  checked  himself;  he  had  been  about 
to  offer  the  information  that  he  had  failed  to  master 
the  jews'-harp  in  his  boyhood.  "No,  I'm  not  a 
musician,"  he  contented  himself  with  saying. 

' '  What  ?"  Dr.  Kraft's  surprise  increased.  '  *  Young 
man,  you  are  fortunate!  I  play  for  Miss  Vertrees; 
she  comes  always  alone.  You  are  the  first.  You 
are  the  first  one  ever  /" 

They  had  reached  the  head  of  the  central  aisle, 
and  as  the  organist  finished  speaking  Bibbs  stopped 
short,  turning  to  look  at  Mary  Vertrees  in  a  dazed 
way  that  was  not  of  her  perceiving;  for,  though  she 
stopped  as  he  did,  her  gaze  followed  the  organist, 
who  was  walking  away  from  them  toward  the  front 

161 


THE   TURMOIL 

of  the  church,  shaking  his  white  Beethovian  mane 
roguishly. 

"It's  false  pretenses  on  my  part,"  Bibbs  said. 
"You  mean  to  be  kind  to  the  sick,  but  I'm  not  an 
invalid  any  more.  I'm  so  well  I'm  going  back  to 
work  in  a  few  days.  I'd  better  leave  before  he  be 
gins  to  play,  hadn't  I?" 

"No,"  said  Mary,  beginning  to  walk  forward. 
"Not  unless  you  don't  like  great  music." 

He  followed  her  to  a  seat  about  half-way  up  the 
aisle  while  Dr.  Kraft  ascended  to  the  organ.  It  was 
an  enormous  one,  the  procession  of  pipes  ranging 
from  long,  starveling  whistles  to  thundering  fat  guns; 
they  covered  all  the  rear  wall  of  the  church,  and  the 
organist's  figure,  reaching  its  high  perch,  looked  like 
that  of  some  Lilliputian  magician  ludicrously  daring 
the  attempt  to  control  a  monster  certain  to  over 
whelm  him. 

"This  afternoon  some  Handel!"  he  turned  to 
shout. 

Mary  nodded.  "Will  you  like  that?"  she  asked 
Bibbs. 

"I  don't  know.  I  never  heard  any  except  'Largo/ 
I  don't  know  anything  about  music.  I  don't  even 
know  how  to  pretend  I  do.  If  I  knew  enough  to 
pretend,  I  would." 

"No,"  said  Mary,  looking  at  him  and  smiling 
faintly,  "you  wouldn't." 

She  turned  away  as  a  great  sound  began  to  swim 
and  tremble  in  the  air;  the  huge  empty  space  of  the 
church  filled  with  it,  and  the  two  people  listening 
filled  with  it;  the  universe  seemed  to  fill  and  thrill 
with  it.  The  two  sat  intensely  still,  the  great  sound 

162 


THE   TURMOIL 

all  round  about  them,  while  the  church  grew  dusky, 
and  only  the  organist 's  lamp  made  a  tiny  star  of 
light.  His  white  head  moved  from  side  to  side 
beneath  it  rhythmically,  or  lunged  and  recovered 
with  the  fierceness  of  a  duelist  thrusting,  but  he 
was  magnificently  the  master  of  his  giant,  and  it 
sang  to  his  magic  as  he  bade  it. 

Bibbs  was  swept  away  upon  that  mighty  singing. 
Such  a  thing  was  wholly  unknown  to  him ;  there  had 
been  no  music  in  his  meager  life.  Unlike  the  tale, 
it  was  the  Princess  Bedrulbudour  who  had  brought 
him  to  the  enchanted  cave,  and  that — for  Bibbs — 
was  what  made  its  magic  dazing.  It  seemed  to  him 
a  long,  long  time  since  he  had  been  walking  home 
drearily  from  Dr.  Gurney's  office;  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  set  out  upon  a  happy  journey  since 
then,  and  that  he  had  reached  another  planet,  where 
Mary  Vertrees  and  he  sat  alone  together  listening 
to  a  vast  choiring  of  invisible  soldiers  and  holy 
angels.  There  were  armies  of  voices  about  them 
singing  praise  and  thanksgiving;  and  yet  they  were 
alone.  It  was  incredible  that  the  walls  of  the  church 
were  not  the  boundaries  of  the  universe,  to  remain 
so  for  ever;  incredible  that  there  was  a  smoky 
street  just  yonder,  where  housemaids  were  bringing 
in  evening  papers  from  front  steps  and  where  chil 
dren  were  taking  their  last  spins  on  roller-skates 
before  being  haled  indoors  for  dinner. 

He  had  a  curious  sense  of  communication  with 
his  new  friend.  He  knew  it  could  not  be  so,  and  yet 
he  felt  as  if  all  the  time  he  spoke  to  her,  saying: 
"You  hear  this  strain?  You  hear  that  strain? 
You  know  the  dream  that  these  sounds  bring  to 

163 


THE   TURMOIL 

me?"  And  it  seemed  to  him  as  though  she  an 
swered  continually:  "I  hear!  I  hear  that  strain, 
and  I  hear  the  new  one  that  you  are  hearing  now. 
I  know  the  dream  that  these  sounds  bring  to  you. 
Yes,  yes,  I  hear  it  all!  We  hear — together!" 

And  though  the  church  grew  so  dim  that  all  was 
mysterious  shadow  except  the  vague  planes  of  the 
windows  and  the  organist's  light,  with  the  white 
head  moving  beneath  it,  Bibbs  had  no  conscious 
ness  that  the  girl  sitting  beside  him  had  grown 
shadowy;  he  seemed  to  see  her  as  plainly  as  ever  in 
the  darkness,  though  he  did  not  look  at  her.  And 
all  the  mighty  chanting  of  the  organ's  multitudinous 
voices  that  afternoon  seemed  to  Bibbs  to  be  chorus 
ing  of  her  and  interpreting  her,  singing  her  thoughts 
and  singing  for  him  the  world  of  humble  gratitude 
that  was  in  his  heart  because  she  was  so  kind  to  him. 
It  all  meant  Mary. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BUT  when  she  asked  him  what  it  meant,  on  their 
homeward  way,  he  was  silent.     They  had  come 
a  few  paces  from  the  church  without  speaking,  walk 
ing  slowly. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  meant  to  me,"  she  said,  as 
he  did  not  immediately  reply.  "Almost  any  music 
of  Handel's  always  means  one  thing  above  all  others 
to  me:  courage!  That's  it.  It  makes  cowardice  or 
whining  seem  so  infinitesimal — it  makes  most  things 
in  our  hustling  little  lives  seem  infinitesimal." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "It  seems  odd,  doesn't  it,  that 
people  down-town  are  hurrying  to  trains  and  hang 
ing  to  straps  in  trolley-cars,  weltering  every  way  to 
get  home  and  feed  and  sleep  so  they  can  get  down 
town  to-morrow.  And  yet  there  isn't  anything 
down  there  worth  getting  to.  They're  like  servants 
drudging  to  keep  the  house  going,  and  believing  the 
drudgery  itself  is  the  great  thing.  They  make  so 
much  noise  and  fuss  and  dirt  they  forget  that  the 
house  was  meant  to  live  in.  The  housework  has  to 
be  done,  but  the  people  who  do  it  have  been  so  over 
paid  that  they're  confused  and  worship  the  house 
work.  They're  overpaid,  and  yet,  poor  things! 
they  haven't  anything  that  a  chicken  can't  have. 
Of  course,  when  the  world  gets  to  paying  its  wages 
sensibly  that  will  be  different." 

165 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Do  you  mean  'communism'?"  she  asked,  and 
she  made  their  slow  pace  a  little  slower — they  had 
only  three  blocks  to  go. 

"Whatever  the  word  is,  I  only  mean  that  things 
don't  look  very  sensible  now — especially  to  a  man 
that  wants  to  keep  out  of  'em  and  can't!  'Com 
munism'?  Well,  at  least  any  'decent  sport'  would 
say  it's  fair  for  all  the  strong  runners  to  start  from 
the  same  mark  and  give  the  weak  ones  a  fair  distance 
ahead,  so  that  all  can  run  something  like  even  on 
the  stretch.  And  wouldn't  it  be  pleasant,  really,  if 
they  could  all  cross  the  winning-line  together?  Who 
really  enjoys  beating  anybody — if  he  sees  the  beaten 
man's  face?  The  only  way  we  can  enjoy  getting 
ahead  of  other  people  nowadays  is  by  forgetting 
what  the  other  people  feel.  And  that,"  he  added, 
"is  nothing  of  what  the  music  meant  to  me.  You 
see,  if  I  keep  talking  about  what  it  didn't  mean  I 
can  keep  from  telling  you  what  it  did  mean." 

"Didn't  it  mean  courage  to  you,  too — a  little?" 
she  asked.  "Triumph  and  praise  were  in  it,  and 
somehow  those  things  mean  courage  to  me." 

"Yes,  they  were  all  there,"  Bibbs  said.  "I  don't 
know  the  name  of  what  he  played,  but  I  shouldn't 
think  it  would  matter  much.  The  man  that  makes 
the  music  must  leave  it  to  you  what  it  can  mean 
to  you,  and  the  name  he  puts  to  it  can't  make  much 
difference — except  to  himself  and  people  very  much 
like  him,  I  suppose." 

"I  suppose  that's  true,  though  I'd  never  thought 
of  it  like  that." 

"I  imagine  music  must  make  feelings  and  paint 
pictures  in  the  minds  of  the  people  who  hear  it," 
I  166 


THE   TURMOIL 

Bibbs  went  on,  musingly,  "according  to  their  own 
natures  as  much  as  according  to  the  music  itself. 
The  musician  might  compose  something  and  play  it, 
wanting  you  to  think  of  the  Holy  Grail,  and  some 
people  who  heard  it  would  think  of  a  prayer-meeting, 
and  some  would  think  of  how  good  they  were  them 
selves,  and  a  boy  might  think  of  himself  at  the  head 
of  a  solemn  procession,  carrying  a  banner  and  riding 
a  white  horse.  And  then,  if  there  were  some  jubi 
lant  passages  in  the  music,  he'd  think  of  a  circus." 

They  had  reached  her  gate,  and  she  set  her  hand 
upon  it,  but  did  not  open  it.  Bibbs  felt  that  this 
was  almost  the  kindest  of  her  kindnesses — not  to  be 
prompt  in  leaving  him. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  "you  didn't  tell  me  whether 
you  liked  it." 

"No.     I  didn't  need  to." 

"No,  that's  true,  and  I  didn't  need  to  ask.  I 
knew.  But  you  said  you  were  trying  to  keep  from 
telling  me  what  it  did  mean." 

"I  can't  keep  from  telling  it  any  longer,"  he  said. 
"The  music  meant  to  me — it  meant  the  kindness 
of — of  you." 

"Kindness?    How?" 

"You  thought  I  was  a  sort  of  lonely  tramp — and 
sick—" 

"No,"  she  said,  decidedly.  "I  thought  perhaps 
you'd  like  to  hear  Dr.  Kraft  play.  And  you  did." 

"It's  curious;  sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  that  it 
was  you  who  were  playing." 

Mary  laughed.  "I?  I  strum!  Piano.  A  little 
Chopin — Grieg — Chaminade.  You  wouldn't  listen!" 

Bibbs  drew  a  deep  breath.  "I'm  frightened 

167 


THE   TURMOIL 

again, "  he  said,  in  an  unsteady  voice.  "I'm  afraid 
you'll  think  I'm  pushing,  but — "  He  paused,  and 
the  words  sank  to  a  murmur. 

"Oh,  if  you  want  me  to  play  for  you!"  she  said. 
"Yes,  gladly.  It  will  be  merely  absurd  after  what 
you  heard  this  afternoon.  I  play  like  a  hundred 
thousand  other  girls,  and  I  like  it.  I'm  glad  when 
any  one's  willing  to  listen,  and  if  you — "  She  stop 
ped,  checked  by  a  sudden  recollection,  and  laughed 
ruefully.  "But  my  piano  won't  be  here  after  to 
night.  I — I'm  sending  it  away  to-morrow.  I'm 
afraid  that  if  you'd  like  me  to  play  to  you  you'd 
have  to  come  this  evening." 

"You'll  let  me?"  he  cried. 

"Certainly,  if  you  care  to." 

"If  I  could  play—"  he  said,  wistfully,  "if  I  could 
play  like  that  old  man  in  the  church  I  could  thank 
you." 

"Ah,  but  you  haven't  heard  me  play.  I  know 
you  liked  this  afternoon,  but — " 

"Yes,"  said  Bibbs.  "It  was  the  greatest  happi 
ness  I've  ever  known." 

It  was  too  dark  to  see  his  face,  but  his  voice  held 
such  plain  honesty,  and  he  spoke  with  such  com 
plete  unconsciousness  of  saying  anything  especially 
significant,  that  she  knew  it  was  the  truth.  For 
a  moment  she  was  nonplussed,  then  she  opened 
the  gate  and  went  in.  "You'll  come  after  dinner, 
then?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  not  moving.  "Would  you  mind 
if  I  stood  here  until  time  to  come  in?" 

She  had  reached  the  steps,  and  at  that  she  turned, 
offering  him  the  response  of  laughter  and  a  gay  ges/ 

1 68 


THE   TURMOIL 

ture  of  her  muff  toward  the  lighted  windows  of  the 
New  House,  as  though  bidding  him  to  run  home  to 
his  dinner. 

That  night,  Bibbs  sat  writing  in  his  note-book. 

Music  can  come  into  a  blank  life  and  fill  it.  Everything 
that  is  beautiful  is  music,  if  you  can  listen. 

There  is  no  gracefulness  like  that  of  a  graceful  woman  at  a 
grand  piano.  There  is  a  swimming  loveliness  of  line  that  seems 
to  merge  with  the  running  of  the  sound,  and  you  seem,  as  you 
watch  her,  to  see  what  you  are  hearing  and  to  hear  what  you 
are  seeing. 

There  are  women  who  make  you  think  of  pine  woods  coming 
down  to  a  sparkling  sea.  The  air  about  such  a  woman  is  bracing, 
and  when  she  is  near  you,  you  feel  strong  and  ambitious;  you 
forget  that  the  world  doesn't  like  you.  You  think  that  perhaps 
you  are  a  great  fellow,  after  all.  Then  you  come  away  and 
feel  like  a  boy  who  has  fallen  in  love  with  his  Sunday-school 
teacher.  You'll  be  whipped  for  it — and  ought  to  be. 

There  are  women  who  make  you  think  of  Diana,  crowned 
with  the  moon.  But  they  do  not  have  the  "Greek  profile." 
I  do  not  believe  Helen  of  Troy  had  a  "Greek  profile";  they 
would  not  have  fought  about  her  if  her  nose  had  been  quite 
that  long.  The  Greek  nose  is  not  the  adorable  nose.  The 
adorable  nose  is  about  an  eighth  of  an  inch  shorter. 

Much  of  the  music  of  Wagner,  it  appears,  is  not  suitable  to 
the  piano.  Wagner  was  a  composer  who  could  interpret  into 
music  such  things  as  the  primitive  impulses  of  humanity — he 
could  have  made  a  machine-shop  into  music.  But  not  if  he  had 
to  work  in  it.  Wagner  was  always  dealing  in  immensities — a 
machine-shop  would  have  put  a  majestic  lump  in  so  grand  a 
gizzard  as  that. 

There  is  a  mystery  about  pianos,  it  seems.  Sometimes  they 
have  to  be  "sent  away."  That  is  how  some  people  speak  of  the 
penitentiary.  "Sent  away"  is  a  euphuism  for  "sent  to  prison." 
But  pianos  are  not  sent  to  prison,  and  they  are  not  sent  to 
the  tuner — the  tuner  is  sent  to  them.  Why  are  pianos  "sent 
away" — and  where? 


THE   TURMOIL 

Sometimes  a  glorious  day  shines  into  the  most  ordinary  and 
useless  life.  Happiness  and  beauty  come  caroling  out  of  the 
air  into  the  gloomy  house  of  that  life  as  if  some  stray  angel  just 
happened  to  perch  on  the  roof -tree,  resting  and  singing.  And 
the  night  after  such  a  day  is  lustrous  and  splendid  with  the 
memory  of  it.  Music  and  beauty  and  kindness — those  are  the 
three  greatest  things  God  can  give  us.  To  bring  them  all  in 
one  day  to  one  who  expected  nothing — ah!  the  heart  that  re 
ceived  them  should  be  as  humble  as  it  is  thankful.  But  it  is 
hard  to  be  humble  when  one  is  so  rich  with  new  memories.  It 
is  impossible  to  be  humble  after  a  day  of  glory. 

Yes — the  adorable  nose  is  more  than  an  eighth  of  an  inch 
shorter  than  the  Greek  nose.  It  is  a  full  quarter  of  an  inch 
shorter. 

There  are  women  who  will  be  kinder  to  a  sick  tramp  than  to 
a  conquering  hero.  But  the  sick  tramp  had  better  remember 
that's  what  he  is.  Take  care,  take  care!  Humble's  the  word  I 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THAT  "mystery  about  pianos"  which  troubled 
Bibbs  had  been  a  mystery  to  Mr.  Vertrees, 
and  it  was  being  explained  to  him  at  about  the  time 
Bibbs  scribbled  the  reference  to  it  in  his  notes.  Mary 
lad  gone  up-stairs  upon  Bibbs's  departure  at  ten 
o'clock,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vertrees  sat  until  after 
midnight  in  the  library,  talking.  And  in  all  that 
time  they  found  not  one  cheerful  topic,  but  became 
more  depressed  with  everything  and  with  every 
phase  of  everything  that  they  discussed — no  ex 
traordinary  state  of  affairs  in  a  family  which  has 
always  "held  up  its  head,"  only  to  arrive  in  the  end 
at  a  point  where  all  it  can  do  is  to  look  on  helplessly 
at  the  processes  of  its  own  financial  dissolution.  For 
;hat  was  the  point  which  this  despairing  couple  had 
reached — they  could  do  nothing  except  look  on  and 
talk  about  it.  They  were  only  vaporing,  and  they 
blew  it. 

"She  needn't  to  have  done  that  about  her  piano," 
vapored  Mr.  Vertrees.  "We  could  have  managed 
somehow  without  it.  At  least  she  ought  to  have 
consulted  me,  and  if  she  insisted  I  could  have  ar 
ranged  the  details  with  the — the  dealer." 

"She  thought  that  it  might  be — annoying  for 
you, ' '  Mrs.  Vertrees  explained.  '  *  Really,  she  planned 
for  you  not  to  know  about  it  until  they  had  removed 

171 


THE   TURMOIL 

— until  after  to-morrow,  that  is,  but  I  decided  to — 
to  mention  it.  You  see,  she  didn't  even  tell  me  about 
it  until  this  morning.  She  has  another  idea,  too, 
I'm  afraid.  It's— it's— " 

"Well?"  he  urged,  as  she  found  it  difficult  to  go  on. 

"Her  other  idea  is — that  is,  it  was — I  think  it  can 
be  avoided,  of  course — it  was  about  her  furs." 

"No!"  he  exclaimed,  quickly.  "I  won't  have  it! 
You  must  see  to  that.  I'd  rather  not  talk  to  her 
about  it,  but  you  mustn't  let  her." 

"I'll  try  not,"  his  wife  promised.  "Of  course, 
they're  very  handsome." 

"All  the  more  reason  for  her  to  keep  them!"  he 
returned,  irritably.  "We're  not  that  far  gone,  I 
think!" 

"Perhaps  not  yet,"  Mrs.  Vertrees  said.  "She 
seems  to  be  troubled  about  the — the  coal  matter  and 
— about  Tilly.  Of  course  the  piano  will  take  care 
of  some  things  like  those  for  a  while  and — " 

"I  don't  like  it.  I  gave  her  the  piano  to  play  on, 
not  to—" 

"You  mustn't  be  distressed  about  it  in  one  way," 
she  said,  comfortingly.  "She  arranged  with  the — 
with  the  purchaser  that  the  men  will  come  for  it 
about  half  after  five  in  the  afternoon.  The  days  are 
so  short  now  it's  really  quite  winter." 

"Oh  yes,"  he  agreed,  moodily.  "So  far  as  that 
goes  people  have  a  right  to  move  a  piece  of  furniture 
without  stirring  up  the  neighbors,  I  suppose,  even 
by  daylight.  I  don't  suppose  our  neighbors  are  pay 
ing  much  attention  just  now,  though  I  hear  Sheridan 
was  back  in  his  office  early  the  morning  after  the 
funeral." 

172 


THE   TURMOIL 

Mrs.  Vertrees  made  a  little  sound  of  commisera 
tion.  "I  don't  believe  that  was  because  he  wasn't 
suffering,  though.  I'm  sure  it  was  only  because 
he  felt  his  business  was  so  important.  Mary  told 
me  he  seemed  wrapped  up  in  his  son's  succeeding; 
and  that  was  what  he  bragged  about  most.  He  isn't 
vulgar  in  his  boasting,  I  understand;  he  doesn't 
talk  a  great  deal  about  his — his  actual  money — 
though  there  was  something  about  blades  of  grass 
that  I  didn't  comprehend.  I  think  he  meant  some 
thing  about  his  energy — but  perhaps  not.  No,  his 
bragging  usually  seemed  to  be  not  so  much  a  per 
sonal  vainglory  as  about  his  family  and  the  greatness 
of  this  city." 

'"Greatness  of  this  city'!"  Mr.  Vertrees  echoed, 
with  dull  bitterness.  "It's  nothing  but  a  coal-hole! 
I  suppose  it  looks  'great'  to  the  man  who  has  the 
luck  to  make  it  work  for  him.  I  suppose  it  looks 
*  great'  to  any  young  man,  too,  starting  out  to  make 
his  fortune  out  of  it.  The  fellows  that  get  what 
they  want  out  of  it  say  it's  'great,'  and  everybody 
else  gets  the  habit.  But  you  have  a  different  point 
of  view  if  it's  the  city  that  got  what  it  wanted  out 
of  you!  Of  course  Sheridan  says  it's  'great.'" 

Mrs.  Vertrees  seemed  unaware  of  this  unusual 
outburst.  "I  believe,"  she  began,  timidly,  "he 
doesn't  boast  of — that  is,  I  understand  he  has  never 
seemed  so  interested  in  the — the  other  one." 

Her  husband's  face  was  dark,  but  at  that  a  heavier 
shadow  fell  upon  it;  he  looked  more  haggard  than 
before.  '"The  other  one,'"  he  repeated,  averting 
his  eyes.  "You  mean — you  mean  the  third  son — 
the  one  that  was  here  this  evening?" 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Yes,  the — the  youngest,"  she  returned,  her  voice 
so  feeble  it  was  almost  a  whisper. 

And  then  neither  of  them  spoke  for  several  long 
minutes.  Nor  did  either  look  at  the  other  during 
that  silence. 

At  last  Mr.  Vertrees  contrived  to  cough,  but  not 
convincingly.  "What — ah — what  was  it  Mary  said 
about  him  out  in  the  hall,  when  she  came  in  this 
afternoon?  I  heard  you  asking  her  something  about 
him,  but  she  answered  in  such  a  low  voice  I  didn't — 
ah — happen  to  catch  it." 

"She — she  didn't  say  much.  All  she  said  was 
this:  I  asked  her  if  she  had  enjoyed  her  walk  with 
him,  and  she  said,  'He's  the  most  wistful  creature 
I've  ever  known.'" 

"Well?" 

"That  was  all.  He  is  wistful-looking;  and  so 
fragile — though  he  doesn't  seem  quite  so  much  so 
lately.  I  was  watching  Mary  from  the  window 
when  she  went  out  to-day,  and  he  joined  her,  and 
if  I  hadn't  known  about  him  I'd  have  thought  he 
had  quite  an  interesting  face." 

"If  you  'hadn't  known  about  him'?  Known 
what?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  of  course,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 
"Nothing  definite,  that  is.  Mary  said  decidedly, 
long  ago,  that  he's  not  at  all  insane,  as  we  thought 
at  first.  It's  only — well,  of  course  it  is  odd,  their 
attitude  about  him.  I  suppose  it's  some  nervous 
trouble  that  makes  him — perhaps  a  little  queer  at 
times,  so  that  he  can't  apply  himself  to  anything — 
or  perhaps  does  odd  things.  But,  after  all,  of  course, 
we  only  have  an  impression  about  it.  We  don't  , 

174 


THE   TURMOIL 

know — that  is,  positively.  I — "  She  paused,  then 
went  on:  "I  didn't  know  just  how  to  ask — that  is 
— I  didn't  mention  it  to  Mary.  I  didn't —  I — " 
The  poor  lady  floundered  pitifully,  concluding  with 
a  mumble.  "So  soon  after — after  the — the  shock." 

"I  don't  think  I've  caught  more  than  a  glimpse 
of  him,"  said  Mr.  Vertrees.  "I  wouldn't  know  him 
if  I  saw  him,  but  your  impression  of  him  is — "  He 
broke  off  suddenly,  springing  to  his  feet  in  agitation. 
''I  can't  imagine  her — oh  no!"  he  gasped.  And  he 
began  to  pace  the  floor.  "A  half-witted  epileptic!" 

"No,  no!"  she  cried.  "He  may  be  all  right. 
We—" 

"Oh,  it's  horrible!  I  can't—"  He  threw  him 
self  back  into  his  chair  again,  sweeping  his  hands 
across  his  face,  then  letting  them  fall  limply  at  his 
sides. 

Mrs.  Vertrees  was  tremulous.  "You  mustn't 
give  way  so,"  she  said,  inspired  for  once  almost  to 
direct  discourse.  "Whatever  Mary  might  think  of 
doing,  it  wouldn't  be  on  her  own  account;  it  would 
be  on  ours.  But  if  we  should — should  consider  it,  that 
wouldn't  be  on  our  own  account.  It  isn't  because 
we  think  of  ourselves." 

"Oh  God,  no!"  he  groaned.  "Not  for  us!  We 
can  go  to  the  poorhouse,  but  Mary  can't  be  a 
stenographer!" 

Sighing,  Mrs.  Vertrees  resumed  her  obliqueness. 
"Of  course,"  she  murmured,  "it  all  seems  very  pre 
mature,  speculating  about  such  things,  but  I  had 
a  queer  sort  of  feeling  that  she  seemed  quite  inter 
ested  in  this — "  She  had  almost  said  "in  this  one," 
but  checked  herself.  "In  this  young  man.  It's 

12  175 


THE   TURMOIL 

natural,  of  course;  she  is  always  so  strong  and  well, 
and  he  is — he  seems  to  be,  that  is — rather  appeal 
ing  to  the — the  sympathies." 

"Yes!"  he  agreed,  bitterly.  "  Precisely.  The  sym 
pathies!" 

" Perhaps,"  she  faltered — "perhaps  you  might 
feel  easier  if  I  could  have  a  little  talk  with  some 
one?" 

"With  whom?" 

"I  had  thought  of — not  going  about  it  too  brusque 
ly,  of  course,  but  perhaps  just  waiting  for  his  name 
to  be  mentioned,  if  I  happened  to  be  talking  with 
somebody  that  knew  the  family — and  then  I  might 
find  a  chance  to  say  that  I  was  sorry  to  hear  he'd 
been  ill  so  much,  and —  Something  of  that  kind 
perhaps?" 

"You  don't  know  anybody  that  knows  the  family." 

"Yes.  That  is — well,  in  a  way,  of  course,  one  of 
the  family.  That  Mrs.  Roscoe  Sheridan  is  not  a — 
that  is,  she's  rather  a  pleasant-faced  little  woman,  I 
think,  and  of  course  rather  ordinary.  I  think  she 
is  interested  about — that  is,  of  course,  she'd  be 
anxious  to  be  more  intimate  with  Mary,  naturally. 
She's  always  looking  over  here  from  her  house;  she 
was  looking  out  of  the  window  this  afternoon  when 
Mary  went  out,  I  noticed — though  I  don't  think 
Mary  saw  her.  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't  think  it  out 
of  place  to — to  be  frank  about  matters.  She  called 
the  other  day,  and  Mary  must  rather  like  her — she 
said  that  evening  that  the  call  had  done  her  good. 
Don't  you  think  it  might  be  wise?" 

"Wise?  I  don't  know.  I  feel  that  the  whole  mat 
ter  is  impossible." 

176 


"HE   SEEMS  TO  BE — RATHER    APPEALING  TO  THE — THE   SYMPATHIES 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Yes,  so  do  I,"  she  returned,  promptly.  "It 
isn't  really  a  thing  we  should  be  considering  seri 
ously,  of  course.  Still — " 

"I  should  say  not!    But  possibly — " 

Thus  they  skirmished  up  and  down  the  field,  but 
before  they  turned  the  lights  out  and  went  up-stairs 
it  was  thoroughly  understood  between  them  that 
Mrs.  Vertrees  should  seek  the  earliest  opportunity 
to  obtain  definite  information  from  Sibyl  Sheridan 
concerning  the  mental  and  physical  status  of  Bibbs. 
And  if  he  were  subject  to  attacks  of  lunacy,  the  un 
happy  pair  decided  to  prevent  the  sacrifice  they 
supposed  their  daughter  intended  to  make  of  her 
self.  Altogether,  if  there  were  spiteful  ghosts  in  the 
old  house  that  night,  eavesdropping  upon  the  woeful 
comedy,  they  must  have  died  anew  of  laughter! 

Mrs.  Vertrees's  opportunity  occurred  the  very 
next  afternoon.  Darkness  had  fallen,  and  the  piano- 
movers  had  come.  They  were  carrying  the  piano 
down  the  front  steps,  and  Mrs.  Vertrees  was  standing 
in  the  open  doorway  behind  them,  preparing  to  with 
draw,  when  she  heard  a  sharp  exclamation;  and 
Mrs.  Roscoe  Sheridan,  bareheaded,  emerged  from  the 
shadow  into  the  light  of  the  doorway. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  cried.  "It  did  give  me  a 
fright!" 

"It's  Mrs.  Sheridan,  isn't  it?"  Mrs.  Vertrees  was 
perplexed  by  this  informal  appearance,  but  she  re 
flected  that  it  might  be  providential.  "Won't  you 
come  in?" 

"No.  Oh  no,  thank  you!"  Sibyl  panted,  pressing 
her  hand  to  her  side.  "You  don't  know  what  a 
fright  you've  given  me!  And  it  was  nothing  but 

177 


THE   TURMOIL 

your  piano!"  She  laughed  shrilly.  "You  know, 
since  our  tragedy  coming  so  suddenly  the  other  day, 
you  have  no  idea  how  upset  I've  been — almost  hys 
terical!  And  I  just  glanced  out  of  the  window,  a 
minute  or  so  ago,  and  saw  your  door  wide  open  and 
black  figures  of  men  against  the  light,  carrying  some 
thing  heavy,  and  I  almost  fainted.  You  see,  it  was 
just  the  way  it  looked  when  I  saw  them  bringing 
my  poor  brother-in-law  in,  next  door,  only  such  a 
few  short  days  ago.  And  I  thought  I'd  seen  your 
daughter  start  for  a  drive  with  Bibbs  Sheridan  in 
a  car  about  three  o'clock — and —  They  aren't  back 
yet,  are  they?" 

1  'No.    Good  heavens!" 

"And  the  only  thing  I  could  think  of  was  that 
something  must  have  happened  to  them,  and  I  just 
dashed  over — and  it  was  only  your  piano!"  She 
broke  into  laughter  again.  "I  suppose  you're  just 
sending  it  somewhere  to  be  repaired,  aren't  you?" 

"It's — it's  being  taken  down-town,"  said  Mrs. 
Vertrees.  "Won't  you  come  in  and  make  me  a  little 
visit.  I  was  so  sorry,  the  other  day,  that  I  was — 
ah — "  She  stopped  inconsequently,  then  repeated 
her  invitation.  "Won't  you  come  in?  I'd  really — ' 

"Thank  you,  but  I  must  be  running  back.  My 
husband  usually  gets  home  about  this  time,  and  I 
make  a  little  point  of  it  always  to  be  there." 

"That's  very  sweet."  Mrs.  Vertrees  descended 
the  steps  and  walked  toward  the  street  with  Sibyl. 
"It's  quite  balmy  for  so  late  in  November,  isn't  it? 
Almost  like  a  May  evening." 

"I'm  afraid  Miss  Vertrees  will  miss  her  piano," 
said  Sibyl,  watching  the  instrument  disappear  into 

178 


THJE   TURMOIL 

the  big  van  at  the  curb.  "She  plays  wonderfully, 
Mrs.  Kittersby  tells  me." 

"Yes,  she  plays  very  well.  One  of  your  relatives 
came  to  hear  her  yesterday,  after  dinner,  and  I  think 
she  played  all  evening  for  him." 

"You  mean  Bibbs?"  asked  Sibyl. 

"The— the  youngest  Mr.  Sheridan.  Yes.  He's 
very  musical,  isn't  he?" 

"I  never  heard  of  it.  But  I  shouldn't  think  it 
would  matter  much  whether  he  was  or  not,  if  he 
could  get  Miss  Vertrees  to  play  to  him.  Does  your 
daughter  expect  the  piano  back  soon?" 

"I — I  believe  not  immediately.  Mr.  Sheridan 
came  last  evening  to  hear  her  play  because  she  had 
arranged  with  the — that  is,  it  was  to  be  removed 
this  afternoon.  He  seems  almost  well  again." 

"Yes."  Sibyl  nodded.  "His  father's  going  to 
try  to  start  him  to  work." 

"He  seems  very  delicate,"  said  Mrs.  Vertrees. 
"I  shouldn't  think  he  would  be  able  to  stand  a  great 
deal,  either  physically  or — "  She  paused  and  then 
added,  glowing  with  the  sense  of  her  own  adroitness 
—"or  mentally." 

"Oh,  mentally  Bibbs  is  all  right,"  said  Sibyl,  in 
an  odd  voice. 

"Entirely?"  Mrs.  Vertrees  asked,  breathlessly. 

"Yes,  entirely." 

"But  has  he  always  been?"  This  question  came 
with  the  same  anxious  eagerness. 

"Certainly.  He  had  a  long  siege  of  nervous  dys 
pepsia,  but  he's  over  it." 

"And  you  think—" 

"Bibbs  is  all  right.  You  needn't  wor— "  Sibyl 
179 


THE   TURMOIL 

choked,  and  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth. 
"Good  night,  Mrs.  Vertrees,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  as 
the  head-lights  of  an  automobile  swung  round  the 
corner  above,  sending  a  brightening  glare  toward  the 
edge  of  the  pavement  where  the  two  ladies  were 
standing. 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  urged  Mrs.  Vertrees,  cor 
dially,  hearing  the  sound  of  a  cheerful  voice  out  of 
the  darkness  beyond  the  approaching  glare.  "Do! 
There's  Mary  now,  and  she — " 

But  Sibyl  was  half-way  across  the  street.  "No, 
thanks,"  she  called.  "I  hope  she  won't  miss  her 
piano !"  And  she  ran  into  her  own  house  and  plunged 
headlong  upon  a  leather  divan  in  the  hall,  holding 
her  handkerchief  over  her  mouth. 

The  noise  of  her  tumultuous  entrance  was  evi 
dently  startling  in  the  quiet  house,  for  upon  the 
bang  of  the  door  there  followed  the  crash  of  a 
decanter,  dropped  upon  the  floor  of  the  dining-room 
at  the  end  of  the  hall;  and,  after  a  rumble  of  indis 
tinct  profanity,  Roscoe  came  forth,  holding  a  drip 
ping  napkin  in  his  hand. 

"What's  your  excitement?"  he  demanded.  "What 
do  you  find  to  go  into  hysterics  over?  Another 
death  in  the  family?" 

"Oh,  it's  funny!"  she  gasped.     "Those  old  frost- , 
bitten  people!    I  guess  they're  getting  their  come- 
upance!"    Lying  prone,  she  elevated  her  feet  in  the 
air,  clapping  her  heels  together  repeatedly,  in  an 
ecstasy. 

"Come  through,  come  through!"  said  her  husband, 
crossly.  "What  you  been  up  to?" 

"Me?"  she  cried,  dropping  her  feet  and  swinging 

180 


THE   TURMOIL 

around  to  face  him.  " Nothing.  It's  them!  Those 
Vertreeses!"  She  wiped  her  eyes.  "They've  had  to 
sell  their  piano!" 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"That  Mrs.  Kittersby  told  me  all  about  'em  a 
week  ago,"  said  Sibyl.  "They've  been  hard  up  for 
a  long  time,  and  she  says  as  long  ago  as  last  winter 
she  knew  that  girl  got  a  pair  of  walking-shoes  re-soled 
and  patched,  because  she  got  it  done  the  same  place 
Mrs.  Kittersby 's  cook  had  hers!  And  the  night  of 
the  house-warming  I  kind  of  got  suspicious,  myself. 
She  didn't  have  one  single  piece  of  any  kind  of  real 
jewelry,  and  you  could  see  her  dress  was  an  old  one 
done  over.  Men  can't  tell  those  things,  and  you 
all  made  a  big  fuss  over  her,  but  I  thought  she  looked 
a  sight,  myself!  Of  course,  Edith  was  crazy  to  have 
her,  and — " 

"Well,  well?"  he  urged,  impatiently. 

"Well,  I'm  telling  you!  Mrs.  Kittersby  says  they 
haven't  got  a  thing!  Just  absolutely  nothing — and 
they  don't  know  anywhere  to  turn!  The  family's 
all  died  out  but  them,  and  all  the  relatives  they  got 
are  very  distant,  and  live  East  and  scarcely  know 
'em.  She  says  the  whole  town's  been  wondering 
what  would  become  of  'em.  The  girl  had  plenty 
chances  to  many  up  to  a  year  or  so  ago,  but  she 
was  so  indifferent  she  scared  the  men  off,  and  the 
ones  that  had  wanted  to  wrent  and  married  other 
girls.  Gracious!  they  were  lucky !  Marry  her?  The 
man  that  found  himself  tied  up  to  that  girl — " 

"Terrible  funny,  terrible  funny!"  said  Roscoe, 
with  sarcasm.  "It's  so  funny  I  broke  a  cut-glass 
decanter  and  spilled  a  quart  of — " 

181 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Wait!"  she  begged.  "You'll  see.  I  was  sitting 
by  the  window  a  little  while  ago,  and  I  saw  a  big 
wagon  drive  up  across  the  street  and  some  men 
go  into  the  house.  It  was  too  dark  to  make  out 
much,  and  for  a  minute  I  got  £he  idea  they  were 
moving  out  —  the  house  has  been  foreclosed  on, 
Mrs.  Kittersby  says.  It  seemed  funny,  too,  because 
I  knew  that  girl  was  out  riding  with  Bibbs.  Well,  I 
thought  I'd  see,  so  I  slipped  over — and  it  was  their 
piano!  They'd  sold  it  and  were  trying  to  sneak  it 
out  after  dark,  so  nobody 'd  catch  on!"  Again  she 
gave  way  to  her  enjoyment,  but  resumed,  as  her  hus 
band  seemed  about  to  interrupt  the  narrative,  "Wait 
a  minute,  can't  you?  The  old  lady  was  superin 
tending,  and  she  gave  it  all  away.  I  sized  her  up  for 
one  of  those  old  churchy  people  that  tell  all  kinds 
of  lies  except  when  it  comes  to  so  many  words, 
and  then  they  can't.  She  might  just  as  well  told 
me  outright!  Yes,  they'd  sold  it;  and  I  hope  they'll 
pay  some  of  their  debts.  They  owe  everybody,  and 
last  week  a  coal-dealer  made  an  awful  fuss  at  the 
door  with  Mr.  Vertrees.  Their  cook  told  our  up 
stairs  girl,  and  she  said  she  didn't  know  when  she'd 
seen  any  money,  herself!  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
such  a  case  as  that  girl  in  your  life?" 

"What  girl?    Their  cook?" 

"That  Vertrees  girl!  Don't  you  see  they  looked 
on  our  coming  up  into  this  neighborhood  as  their 
last  chance?  They  were  just  going  down  and  out, 
and  here  bobs  up  the  green,  rich  Sheridan  family! 
So  they  doll  the  girl  up  in  her  old  things,  made 
over,  and  send  her  out  to  get  a  Sheridan — she's 
got  to  get  one!  And  she  just  goes  in  blind;  and  she 

182 


THE   TURMOIL 

tries  it  on  first  with  you.  You  remember,  she  just 
plain  told  you  she  was  going  to  mash  you,  and  then 
she  found  out  you  were  the  married  one,  and  turned 
right  square  around  to  Jim  and  carried  him  off  his 
feet.  Oh,  Jim  was  landed — there's  no  doubt  about 
that!  But  Jim  was  lucky;  he  didn't  live  to  stay 
landed,  and  it's  a  good  thing  for  him!"  Sibyl's 
mirth  had  vanished,  and  she  spoke  with  virulent  ra 
pidity.  ' '  Well,  she  couldn't  get  you,  because  you  were 
married,  and  she  couldn't  get  Jim,  because  Jim  died. 
And  there  they  were,  dead  broke!  Do  you  know 
what  she  did?  Do  you  know  what  she's  doing?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Roscoe,  gruffly. 

Sibyl's  voice  rose  and  culminated  in  a  scream  of 
renewed  hilarity.  "Bibbs!  She  waited  in  the  grave 
yard,  and  drove  home  with  him  from  Jim's  funeral! 
Never  spoke  to  him  before!  Jim  wasn't  cold!" 

She  rocked  herself  back  and  forth  upon  the  divan. 
"Bibbs!"  she  shrieked.  "Bibbs!  Roscoe,  think  of 
it!  Bibbs!" 

He  stared  unsympathetically,  but  her  mirth  was 
unabated  for  all  that.  "And  yesterday,"  she  contin 
ued,  between  paroxysms — "yesterday  she  came  out 
of  the  house — just  as  he  was  passing.  She  must  have 
been  looking  out — waiting  the  chance;  I  saw  the  old 
lady  watching  at  the  window !  And  she  got  him  there 
last  night — to  'play'  to  him;  the  old  lady  gave  that 
away!  And  to-day  she  made  him  take  her  out  in 
a  machine!  And  the  cream  of  it  is  that  they  didn't 
even  know  whether  he  was  insane  or  not — they 
thought  maybe  he  was,  but  she  went  after  him 
just  the  same!  The  old  lady  set  herself  to  pump 
me  about  it  to-day.  Bibbs !  Oh,  my  Lord !  Bibbs !" 

183 


THE   TURMOIL 

But  Roscoe  looked  grim.  "So  it's  funny  to  you, 
is  it?  It  sounds  kind  of  pitiful  to  me.  I  should 
think  it  would  to  a  woman,  too/* 

' '  Oh,  it  might, ' '  she  returned,  sobering.  ' '  It  might, 
if  those  people  weren't  such  f rozen  -  faced  smart 
Alecks.  If  they'd  had  the  decency  to  come  down  off 
the  perch  a  little  I  probably  wouldn't  think  it  was 
funny,  but  to  see  'em  sit  up  on  their  pedestal  all 
the  time  they're  eating  dirt — well,  I  think  it's  funny! 
That  girl  sits  up  as  if  she  was  Queen  Elizabeth, 
and  expects  people  to  wallow  on  the  ground  before 
her  until  they  get  near  enough  for  her  to  give  'em 
a  good  kick  with  her  old  patched  shoes — oh,  she'd 
do  that,  all  right ! — and  then  she  powders  up  and  goes 
out  to  mash — Bibbs  Sheridan!19 

"Look  here,"  said  Roscoe,  heavily;  "I  don't  care 
about  that  one  way  or  another.  If  you're  through,  I 
got  something  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about.  I  was 
going  to,  that  day  just  before  we  heard  about 
Jim." 

At  this  Sibyl  stiffened  quickly;  her  eyes  became 
intensely  bright.  ' ' What  is  it  ?" 

"Well,"  he  began,  frowning,  "what  I  was  going 
to  say  then — "  He  broke  off,  and,  becoming  con 
scious  that  he  was  still  holding  the  wet  napkin  in 
his  hand,  threw  it  pettishly  into  a  corner.  "I  never 
expected  I'd  have  to  say  anything  like  this  to  any 
body  I  married;  but  I  was  going  to  ask  you  what 
was  the  matter  between  you  and  Lamhorn." 

Sibyl  uttered  a  sharp  monosyllable.    "Well ?" 

"I  felt  the  time  had  come  for  me  to  know  about 
it,"  he  went  on.  "You  never  told  me  anything — " 

"You  never  asked,"  she  interposed,  curtly. 

184 


THE   TURMOIL 

tffefc   . 

"Well,  we'd  got  in  a  way  of  not  talking  much," 
said  Roscoe.  "It  looks  to  me  now  as  if  we'd  pretty 
much  lost  the  run  of  each  other  the  way  a  good  many 
people  do.  I  don't  say  it  wasn't  my  fault.  I  was  up 
early  and  down  to  work  all  day,  and  I'd  come  home 
tired  at  night,  and  want  to  go  to  bed  soon  as  I'd 
got  the  paper  read — unless  there  was  some  good 
musical  show  in  town.  Well,  you  seemed  all  right 
until  here  lately,  the  last  month  or  so,  I  began  to 
see  something  was  wrong.  I  couldn't  help  seeing  it." 

"Wrong?"  she  said.    "What  like?" 

"You  changed;  you  didn't  look  the  same.  You 
were  all  strung  up  and  excited  and  fidgety;  you  got 
to  looking  peakid  and  run  down.  Now  then,  Lam- 
horn  had  been  going  with  us  a  good  while,  but  I 
noticed  that  not  long  ago  you  got  to  picking  on  him 
about  every  little  thing  he  did;  you  got  to  quarrel 
ing  with  him  when  I  was  there  and  when  I  wasn't. 
I  could  see  you'd  been  quarreling  whenever  I  came 
in  and  he  was  here." 

"Do  you  object  to  that?"  asked  Sibyl,  breathing 
quickly. 

"Yes — when  it  injures  my  wife's  health!"  he  re 
turned,  with  a  quick  lift  of  his  eyes  to  hers.  "You 
began  to  run  down  just  about  the  time  you  began 
falling  out  with  him."  He  stepped  close  to  her. 
"See  here,  Sibyl,  I'm  going  to  know  what  it  means." 

"Oh,  you  are?"  she  snapped. 

"You're  trembling,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"Yes.  I'm  angry  enough  to  do  more  than  trem 
ble,  you'll  find.  Goon!" 

"That  was  all  I  was  going  to  say  the  other  day," 
he  said.  "I  was  going  to  ask  you — " 

185 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Yes,  that  was  all  you  were  going  to  say  the 
other  day.  Yes.  What  else  have  you  to  say  to 
night?" 

"To-night,"  he  replied,  with  grim  swiftness,  "I 
want  to  know  why  you  keep  telephoning  him  you 
want  to  see  him  since  he  stopped  coming  here." 

She  made  a  long,  low  sound  of  comprehension 
before  she  said,  "And  what  else  did  Edith  want  you 
to  ask  me?" 

"I  want  to  know  what  you  say  over  the  telephone 
to  Lamhorn,"  he  said,  fiercely. 

"Is  that  all  Edith  told  you  to  ask  me?  You  saw 
her  when  you  stopped  in  there  on  your  way  home 
this  evening,  didn't  you?  Didn't  she  tell  you  then 
what  I  said  over  the  telephone  to  Mr.  Lamhorn?" 

"No,  she  didn't!"  he  vociferated,  his  voice  grow 
ing  louder.  "She  said,  'You  tell  your  wife  to  stop 
telephoning  Robert  Lamhorn  to  come  and  see  her, 
because  he  isn't  going  to  do  it!'  That's  what  she 
said!  And  I  want  to  know  what  it  means.  I  in 
tend—" 

A  maid  appeared  at  the  lower  end  of  the  hall. 
"Dinner  is  ready,"  she  said,  and,  giving  the  troubled 
pair  one  glance,  went  demurely  into  the  dining-room. 
Roscoe  disregarded  the  interruption. 

"I  intend  to  know  exactly  what  has  been  going 
on,"  he  declared.  "I  mean  to  know  just  what — " 

Sibyl  jumped  up,  almost  touching  him,  standing 
face  to  face  with  him. 

"Oh,  you  do!"  she  cried,  shrilly.  "You  mean  to 
know  just  what's  what,  do  you?  You  listen  to  your 
sister  insinuating  ugly  things  about  your  wife,  and  then 
you  come  home  making  a  scene  before  the  servants 

186 


THE   TURMOIL 

and  humiliating  me  in  their  presence!  Do  you  sup 
pose  that  Irish  girl  didn't  hear  every  word  you  said? 
You  go  in  there  and  eat  your  dinner  alone !  Go  on ! 
Go  and  eat  your  dinner  alone — because  J  won't  eat 
with  you!" 

And  she  broke  away  from  the  detaining  grasp  he 
sought  to  fasten  upon  her,  and  dashed  up  the  stair 
way,  panting.  He  heard  the  door  of  her  room  slam 
overhead,  and  the  sharp  click  of  the  key  in  the  lock. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AT  seven  o'clock  on  the  last  morning  of  that 
month,  Sheridan,  passing  through  the  upper 
hall  on  his  way  to  descend  the  stairs  for  breakfast, 
found  a  couple  of  scribbled  sheets  of  note-paper 
lying  on  the  floor.  A  window  had  been  open  in 
Bibbs's  room  the  evening  before;  he  had  left  his 
note-book  on  the  sill — and  the  sheets  were  loose. 
The  door  was  open,  and  when  Bibbs  came  in  and 
closed  it,  he  did  not  notice  that  the  two  sheets  had 
blown  out  into  the  hall.  Sheridan  recognized  the 
handwriting  and  put  the  sheets  in  his  coat  pocket, 
intending  to  give  them  to  George  or  Jackson  for  re 
turn  to  the  owner,  but  he  forgot  and  carried  them 
down-town  with  him.  At  noon  he  found  himself 
alone  in  his  office,  and,  having  a  little  leisure,  remem 
bered  the  bits  of  manuscript,  took  them  out,  and 
glanced  at  them.  A  glance  was  enough  to  reveal 
that  they  were  not  epistolary.  Sheridan  would  not 
have  read  a  " private  letter"  that  came  into  his 
possession  in  that  way,  though  in  a  "matter  of 
business"  he  might  have  felt  it  his  duty  to  take 
advantage  of  an  opportunity  afforded  in  any  manner 
whatsoever.  Having  satisfied  himself  that  Bibbs's 
scribblings  were  only  a  sample  of  the  kind  of  writing 
his  son  preferred  to  the  machine-shop,  he  decided, 

188 


THE   TURMOIL 

innocently  enough,  that  he  would  be  justified  in 
reading  them. 

It  appears  that  a  lady  will  nod  pleasantly  upon  some  windy 
generalization  of  a  companion,  and  will  wear  the  most  agreeable 
expression  of  accepting  it  as  the  law,  and  then  —  days  afterward, 
when  the  thing  is  a  mummy  to  its  promulgator — she  will  in 
quire  out  of  a  clear  sky :  "  Why  did  you  say  that  the  people 
down-town  have  nothing  in  life  that  a  chicken  hasn't?  What 
did  you  mean?"  And  she  may  say  it  in  a  manner  that  makes  a 
sensible  reply  very  difficult — you  will  be  so  full  of  wonder  that 
she  remembered  so  seriously. 

Yet,  what  does  the  rooster  lack?  He  has  food  and  shelter; 
he  is  warm  in  winter;  his  wives  raise  not  one  fine  family  for 
him,  but  dozens.  He  has  a  clear  sky  over  him;  he  breathes 
sweet  air;  he  walks  in  his  April  orchard  under  a  roof  of  flowers. 
He  must  die,  violently  perhaps,  but  quickly.  Is  Midas's  cancer 
a  better  way?  The  rooster's  wives  and  children  must  die. 
Are  those  of  Midas  immortal?  His  life  is  shorter  than  the  life 
of  Midas,  but  Midas's  life  is  only  a  sixth  as  long  as  that  of  the 
Galapagos  tortoise. 

The  worthy  money-worker  takes  his  vacation  so  that  he  may 
refresh  himself  anew  for  the  hard  work  of  getting  nothing  that 
the  rooster  doesn't  get.  The  office-building  has  an  elevator,  the 
rooster  flies  up  to  the  bough.  Midas  has  a  machine  to  take  him 
to  his  work;  the  rooster  finds  his  worm  underfoot.  The  "busi 
ness  man"  feels  a  pressure  sometimes,  without  knowing  why, 
and  sits  late  at  wine  after  the  day's  labor;  next  morning  he 
curses  his  head  because  it  interferes  with  the  work — he  swears 
never  to  relieve  that  pressure  again.  The  rooster  has  no  press 
ure  and  no  wine;  this  difference  is  in  his  favor. 

The  rooster  is  a  dependent;  he  depends  upon  the  farmer  and 
the  weather.  Midas  is  a  dependent;  he  depends  upon  the  farmer 
and  the  weather.  The  rooster  thinks  only  of  the  moment; 
Midas  provides  for  to-morrow.  What  does  he  provide  for  to 
morrow?  Nothing  that  the  rooster  will  not  have  without  pro 
viding. 

The  rooster  and  the  prosperous  worker:  they  are  born,  they 
grub,  they  love;  they  grub  and  love  grubbing;  they  grub  and 

189 


THE   TURMOIL 

they  die.  Neither  knows  beauty;  neither  knows  knowledge. 
And  after  all,  when  Midas  dies  and  rooster  dies,  there  is  one 
thing  Midas  has  had  and  rooster  has  not.  Midas  has  had  the 
excitement  of  accumulating  what  he  has  grubbed,  and  that  has 
been  his  life  and  his  love  and  his  god.  He  cannot  take  that  god 
with  him  when  he  dies.  I  wonder  if  the  worthy  gods  are  those 
we  can  take  with  us. 

Midas  must  teach  all  to  be  as  Midas;   the  young  must  be 
raised  in  his  religion — 


The  manuscript  ended  there,  and  Sheridan  was 
not  anxious  for  more.  He  crumpled  the  sheets 
into  a  ball,  depositing  it  (with  vigor)  in  a  waste- 
basket  beside  him;  then,  rising,  he  consulted  a 
Cyclopedia  of  Names,  which  a  book-agent  had  some 
how  sold  to  him  years  before;  a  volume  now  first 
put  to  use  for  the  location  of  "Midas."  Having 
read  the  legend,  Sheridan  walked  up  and  down 
the  spacious  office,  exhaling  the  breath  of  contempt. 
"Dam*  fool!"  he  mumbled.  But  this  was  no  new 
thought,  nor  was  the  contrariness  of  Bibbs's  notes 
a  surprise  to  him;  and  presently  he  dismissed  the 
matter  from  his  mind. 

He  felt  very  lonely,  and  this  was,  daily,  his  hardest 
hour.  For  a  long  time  he  and  Jim  had  lunched 
together  habitually.  Roscoe  preferred  a  club  lunch 
eon,  but  Jim  and  his  father  almost  always  went 
to  a  small  restaurant  near  the  Sheridan  Building, 
where  they  spent  twenty  minutes  in  the  consumption 
of  food,  and  twenty  in  talk,  with  cigars.  Jim  came 
for  his  father  every  day,  at  five  minutes  after  twelve, 
and  Sheridan  was  again  in  his  office  at  five  minutes 
before  one.  But  now  that  Jim  no  longer  came, 
Sheridan  remained  alone  in  his  office;  he  had  not 

IQO 


THE   TURMOIL 

gone  out  to  lunch  since  Jim's  death,  nor  did  he  have 
anything  sent  to  him — he  fasted  until  evening. 

It  was  the  time  he  missed  Jim  personally  the 
most — the  voice  and  eyes  and  handshake,  all  brisk 
and  alert,  all  business-like.  But  these  things  were 
not  the  keenest  in  Sheridan's  grief;  his  sense  of  loss 
went  far  deeper.  Roscoe  was  dependable,  a  steady 
old  wheel-horse,  and  that  was  a  great  comfort;  but 
it  was  in  Jim  that  Sheridan  had  most  happily  per 
ceived  his  own  likeness.  Jim  was  the  one  who  would 
have  been  surest  to  keep  the  great  property  growing 
greater,  year  by  year.  Sheridan  had  fallen  asleep, 
night  after  night,  picturing  what  the  growth  would 
be  under  Jim.  He  had  believed  that  Jim  was  abso 
lutely  certain  to  be  one  of  the  biggest  men  in  the 
country.  Well,  it  was  all  up  to  Roscoe  now! 

That  reminded  him  of  a  question  he  had  in  mind 
to  ask  Roscoe.  It  was  a  question  Sheridan  con 
sidered  of  no  present  importance,  but  his  wife  had 
suggested  it — though  vaguely — and  he  had  meant  to 
speak  to  Roscoe  about  it.  However,  Roscoe  had 
not  come  into  his  father's  office  for  several  days, 
and  when  Sheridan  had  seen  his  son  at  home  there 
had  been  no  opportunity. 

He  waited  until  the  greater  part  of  his  day's 
work  was  over,  toward  four  o'clock,  and  then  went 
down  to  Roscoe's  office,  which  was  on  a  lower  floor. 
He  found  several  men  waiting  for  business  interviews 
in  an  outer  room  of  the  series  Roscoe  occupied; 
and  he  supposed  that  he  would  find  his  son  busy 
with  others,  and  that  his  question  would  have  to  be 
postponed,  but  when  he  entered  the  door  marked 
"R.  C.  Sheridan.  Private,"  Roscoe  was  there  alone. 
13  191 


THE   TURMOIL 

He  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  door,  his  feet 
on  a  window-sill,  and  he  did  not  turn  as  his  father 
opened  the  door. 

"Some  pretty  good  men  out  there  waitin'  to  see 
you,  my  boy, ' '  said  Sheridan.  ' '  What's  the  matter  ?" 

"Nothing,"  Roscoe  answered  indistinctly,  not 
moving. 

"Well,  I  guess  that's  all  right,  too.  I  let  'em 
wait  sometimes  myself!  I  just  wanted  to  ask  you  a 
question,  but  I  expect  it  '11  keep,  if  you're  workin' 
something  out  in  your  mind." 

Roscoe  made  no  reply;  and  his  father,  who  had 
turned  to  the  door,  paused  with  his  hand  on  the 
knob,  staring  curiously  at  the  motionless  figure  in 
the  chair.  Usually  the  son  seemed  pleased  and  eager 
when  he  came  to  the  office.  "You're  all  right,  ain't 
you?"  said  Sheridan.  "Not  sick,  are  you?" 

"No." 

Sheridan  was  puzzled;  then,  abruptly,  he  decided 
to  ask  his  question.  "I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about 
that  young  Lamhorn,"  he  said.  "I  guess  your 
mother  thinks  he's  comin'  to  see  Edith  pretty  often, 
and  you  known  him  longer  'n  any  of  us,  so — " 

"I  won't,"  said  Roscoe,  thickly — "I  won't  say  a 
dam'  thing  about  him!" 

Sheridan  uttered  an  exclamation  and  walked 
quickly  to  a  position  near  the  window  where  he 
could  see  his  son's  face.  Roscoe's  eyes  were  blood 
shot  and  vacuous;  his  hair  was  disordered,  his  mouth 
was  distorted,  and  he  was  deathly  pale.  The  father 
stood  aghast. 

"By  George!"  he  muttered.    "Roscoe!" 

"My  name,"  said  Roscoe.  "Can'  help  that." 

192 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Roscoe!"  Blank  astonishment  was  Sheridan's 
first  sensation.  Probably  nothing  in  the  world 
could  have  more  amazed  him  than  to  find  Roscoe 
—  the  steady  old  wheel-horse  —  in  this  condition. 
"How'd  you  get  this  way?"  he  demanded.  "You 
caught  cold  and  took  too  much  for  it?" 

For  reply  Roscoe  laughed  hoarsely.  ' '  Yeuh !  Cold ! 
I  been  drinkun  all  time,  lately.  Firs'  you  notice  it?" 

"By  George!"  cried  Sheridan.  "I  thought  I'd 
smelt  it  on  you  a  good  deal  lately,  but  I  wouldn't 
'a'  believed  you'd  take  more'n  was  good  for  you. 
Boh!  To  see  you  like  a  common  hog!" 

Roscoe  chuckled  and  threw  out  his  right  arm  in 
a  meaningless  gesture.  "Hog!"  he  repeated,  chuck 
ling. 

"Yes,  a  hog!"  said  Sheridan,  angrily.  "In  busi 
ness  hours!  I  don't  object  to  anybody's  takin*  a 
drink  if  he  wants  to,  out  o'  business  hours;  nor,  if 
a  man  keeps  his  work  right  up  to  the  scratch,  I 
wouldn't  be  the  one  to  baste  him  if  he  got  good  an* 
drunk  once  in  two,  three  years,  maybe.  It  ain't 
my  way.  I  let  it  alone,  but  I  never  believed  in  forcin' 
my  way  on  a  grown-up  son  in  moral  matters.  I 
guess  I  was  wrong!  You  think  them  men  out  there 
are  waitin'  to  talk  business  with  a  drunkard?  You 
think  you  can  come  to  your  office  and  do  business 
drunk?  By  George!  I  wonder  how  often  this  has 
been  happening  and  me  not  on  to  it!  I'll  have  a 
look  over  your  books  to-morrow,  and  I'll — ' 

Roscoe  stumbled  to  his  feet,  laughing  wildly,  and 
stood  swaying,  contriving  to  hold  himself  in  position 
by  clutching  the  back  of  the  heavy  chair  in  which 
he  had  been  sitting. 


THE   TURMOIL 

' '  Hoo — hoorah !"  he  cried.  "  'S  my  principles,  too. 
Be  drunkard  all  you  want  to  —  outside  business 
hours.  Don'  for  Gossake  le'n'thing  innerfere  busi 
ness  hours!  Business!  Thassit!  You're  right,  fa 
ther.  Drink!  Die!  L'every thing  go  to  hell,  but 
don'  let  innerfere  business!" 

Sheridan  had  seized  the  telephone  upon  Roscoe's 
desk,  and  was  calling  his  own  office,  overhead. 
"Abercrombie?  Come  down  to  my  son  Roscoe's 
suite  and  get  rid  of  some  gentlemen  that  are  waitin' 
there  to  see  him  in  room  two-fourteen.  There's 
Maples  and  Schirmer  and  a  couple  o'  fellows  on  the 
Kinsey  business.  Tell  'em  something's  come  up  J 
have  to  go  over  with  Roscoe,  and  tell  'em  to  come 
back  day  after  to-morrow  at  two.  You  needn't 
come  in  to  let  me  know  they're  gone;  we  don't 
want  to  be  disturbed.  Tell  Pauley  to  call  my  house 
and  send  Claus  down  here  with  a  closed  car.  We 
may  have  to  go  out.  Tell  him  to  hustle,  and  call 
me  at  Roscoe's  room  as  soon  as  the  car  gets  here. 
'T'sall!" 

Roscoe  had  laughed  bitterly  throughout  this  mono 
logue.  "Drunk  in  business  hours!  Thass  awf'l! 
Mus'n'  do  such  thing!  Mus'n'  get  drunk,  mus'n' 
gamble,  mus'n'  kill  'nybody — not  in  business  hours! 
All  right  any  other  time.  Kill  'nybody  you  want 
to — 's  long  'tain't  in  business  hours!  Fine!  Mus'n' 
have  any  trouble  't  '11  innerfere  business.  Keep 
your  trouble  't  home.  Don'  bring  it  to  th'  office. 
Might  innerfere  business.  Have  funerals  on  Sun 
day — might  innerfere  business!  Don'  let  your  wife 
innerfere  business!  Keep  all,  all,  all  your  trouble 
an*  your  meanness,  an'  your  trad — your  tradegy — 

194 


THE   TURMOIL 

keep  'em  all  for  home  use!  If  you  got  die,  go  on 
die  't  home — don'  die  round  th'  office !  Might  inner- 
fere  business!" 

Sheridan  picked  up  a  newspaper  from  Roscoe's 
desk,  and  sat  down  with  his  back  to  his  son,  affect 
ing  to  read.  Roscoe  seemed  to  be  unaware  of  his 
father's  significant  posture. 

"You  know  wh'  I  think?"  he  went  on.  "I  think 
Bibbs  only  one  the  fam'ly  any  'telligence  at  all. 
Won'  work,  an'  di'n'  get  married.  Jim  worked,  an' 
he  got  killed.  I  worked,  an'  I  got  married.  Look 
at  me !  Jus'  look  at  me,  I  ask  you.  Fine  'dustriss 
young  business  man.  Look  whass  happen'  to  me? 
Fine!"  He  lifted  his  hand  from  the  sustaining  chair 
in  a  deplorable  gesture,  and,  immediately  losing 
his  balance,  fell  across  the  chair  and  caromed  to 
the  floor  with  a  crash,  remaining  prostrate  for 
several  minutes,  during  which  Sheridan  did  not 
relax  his  apparent  attention  to  the  newspaper.  He 
did  not  even  look  round  at  the  sound  of  Roscoe's  fall. 

Roscoe  slowly  climbed  to  an  upright  position, 
pulling  himself  up  by  holding  to  the  chair.  He  was 
slightly  sobered  outwardly,  having  progressed  in 
the  prostrate  interval  to  a  state  of  befuddlement 
less  volatile.  He  rubbed  his  dazed  eyes  with  the 
back  of  his  left  hand. 

"What — what  you  ask  me  while  ago?"  he  said. 

"NothinV 

"Yes,  you  did.    What— what  was  it?" 

' '  Nothin' .    You  better  sit  down. ' ' 

"You  ask'  me  what  I  thought  about  Lamhorn. 
You  did  ask  me  that.  Well,  I  won't  tell  you.  I 
won't  say  dam'  word  'bout  him!" 


THE   TURMOIL 

The  telephone-bell  tinkled.  Sheridan  placed  the 
receiver  to  his  ear  and  said,  '* Right  down."  Then 
he  got  Roscoe's  coat  and  hat  from  a  closet  and 
brought  them  to  his  son.  "Get  into  this  coat,"  he 
said.  "You're  goin'  home." 

"All  ri',"  Roscoe  murmured,  obediently. 

They  went  out  into  the  main  hall  by  a  side  door, 
not  passing  through  the  outer  office;  and  Sheridan 
waited  for  an  empty  elevator,  stopped  it,  and  told 
the  operator  to  take  on  no  more  passengers  until 
they  reached  the  ground  floor.  Roscoe  walked  out 
of  the  building  and  got  into  the  automobile  without 
lurching,  and  twenty  minutes  later  walked  into  his 
own  house  in  the  same  manner,  neither  he  nor  his 
father  having  spoken  a  word  in  the  interval. 

Sheridan  did  not  go  in  with  him;  he  went  home, 
and  to  his  own  room  without  meeting  any  of  his 
family.  But  as  he  passed  Bibbs's  door  he  heard  from 
within  the  sound  of  a  cheerful  young  voice  humming 
jubilant  fragments  of  song: 

Who  looks  a  mustang  in  the  eye?  .  .  . 
With  a  leap  from  the  ground 
To  the  saddle  in  a  bound. 

And  away — and  away! 

Hi-yay! 

It  was  the  first  time  in  Sheridan's  life  that  he 
had  ever  detected  any  musical  symptom  whatever  in 
Bibbs — he  had  never  even  heard  him  whistle — and 
it  seemed  the  last  touch  of  irony  that  the  useless 
fool  should  be  merry  to-day. 

To  Sheridan  it  was  Tom  o'  Bedlam  singing  while  the 
house  burned;  and  he  did  not  tarry  to  enjoy  the  mel 
ody,  but  went  into  his  own  room  and  locked  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HE  emerged  only  upon  a  second  summons  to 
dinner,  two  hours  later,  and  came  to  the  table 
so  white  and  silent  that  his  wife  made  her  anxiety 
manifest  and  was  but  partially  reassured  by  his 
explanation  that  his  lunch  had  "disagreed"  with 
him  a  little. 

Presently,  however,  he  spoke  effectively.  Bibbs, 
whose  appetite  had  become  hearty,  was  helping 
himself  to  a  second  breast  of  capon  from  white- 
jacket's  salver.  ' 'Here's  another  difference  between 
Midas  and  chicken,"  Sheridan  remarked,  grimly. 
"Midas  can  eat  rooster,  but  rooster  can't  eat  Midas. 
I  reckon  you  overlooked  that.  Midas  looks  to  me 
like  he  had  the  advantage  there." 

Bibbs  retained  enough  presence  of  mind  to  transfer 
the  capon  breast  to  his  plate  without  dropping  it 
and  to  respond,  "Yes — he  crows  over  it." 

Having  returned  his  antagonist's  fire  in  this 
fashion,  he  blushed — for  he  could  blush  distinctly 
now — and  his  mother  looked  upon  him  with  pleas 
ure,  though  the  reference  to  Midas  and  roosters  was 
of  course  jargon  to  her.  "Did  you  ever  see  anybody 
improve  the  way  that  child  has!"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  declare,  Bibbs,  sometimes  lately  you  look  right 
handsome!" 

"He's  got  to  be  such  a  gadabout,"  Edith  giggled. 

197 


THE  TURMOIL 

"I  found  something  of  his  on  the  floor  up-stairs 
this  morning,  before  anybody  was  up,"  said  Sheridan. 
"I  reckon  if  people  lose  things  in  this  house  and  ex 
pect  to  get  'em  back,  they  better  get  up  as  soon  as  I 
do." 

"What  was  it  he  lost?"  asked  Edith. 

"He  knows!"  her  father  returned.  "Seems  to  me 
like  I  forgot  to  bring  it  home  with  me.  I  looked  it 
over — thought  probably  it  was  something  pretty  im 
portant,  belongin'  to  a  busy  man  like  him."  He 
affected  to  search  his  pockets.  "What  did  I  do  with 
it,  now?  Oh  yes!  Seems  to  me  like  I  remember 
leavin'  it  down  at  the  office — in  the  waste-basket." 

"Good  place  for  it,"  Bibbs  murmured,  still  red. 

Sheridan  gave  him  a  grin.  "Perhaps  pretty  soon 
you'll  be  gettin'  up  early  enough  to  find  things  be 
fore  I  do!" 

It  was  a  threat,  and  Bibbs  repeated  the  substance 
of  it,  later  in  the  evening,  to  Mary  Vertrees — they 
had  come  to  know  each  other  that  well. 

"My  time's  here  at  last,"  he  said,  as  they  sat 
together  in  the  melancholy  gas-light  of  the  room 
which  had  been  denuded  of  its  piano.  That  re 
moval  had  left  an  emptiness  so  distressing  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Vertrees  that  neither  of  them  had  crossed 
the  threshold  since  the  dark  day;  but  the  gas-light, 
though  from  a  single  jet,  shed  no  melancholy  upon 
Bibbs,  nor  could  any  room  seem  bare  that  knew 
the  glowing  presence  of  Mary.  He  spoke  lightly, 
not  sadly. 

"Yes,  it's  come.  I've  shirked  and  put  off,  but 
I  can't  shirk  and  put  off  any  longer.  It's  really 
my  part  to  go  to  him — at  least  it  would  save  my 

198 


THE^TURMOIL 

face.    He  means  what  he  says,  and  the  time's  come 
to  serve  my  sentence.    Hard  labor  for  life,  I  think." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  think  so.  He's 
too  land." 

"You  think  my  father's  kindt"  And  Bibbs 
stared  at  her. 

"Yes.  I'm  sure  of  it.  I've  felt  that  he  has  a 
great,  brave  heart.  It's  only  that  he  has  to  be  kind 
in  his  own  way — because  he  can't  understand  any 
other  way." 

"Ah  yes,"  said  Bibbs.  "If  that's  what  you  mean 
by 'kind'!" 

She  looked  at  him  gravely,  earnest  concern  in  her 
friendly  eyes.  "It's  going  to  be  pretty  hard  for 
you,  isn't  it?" 

' '  Oh — self-pity !' '  he  returned,  smiling.  ' '  This  has 
been  just  the  last  flicker  of  revolt.  Nobody  minds 
work  if  he  likes  the  kind  of  work.  There'd  be  no 
loafers  in  the  world  if  each  man  found  the  thing 
that  he  could  do  best;  but  the  only  work  I  happen 
to  want  to  do  is  useless — so  I  have  to  give  it  up. 
To-morrow  I'll  be  a  day-laborer." 

"What  is  it  like— exactly?" 

"I  get  up  at  six,"  he  said.  "I  have  a  lunch-basket 
to  carry  with  me,  which  is  aristocratic  and  no  advan 
tage.  The  other  workmen  have  tin  buckets,  and  tin 
buckets  are  better.  I  leave  the  house  at  six-thirty, 
and  I'm  at  work  in  my  overalls  at  seven.  I  have  an 
hour  off  at  noon,  and  work  again  from  one  till  five." 

"But  the  work  itself?" 

"It  wasn't  muscularly  exhausting  —  not  at  all. 
They  couldn't  give  me  a  heavier  job  because  I  wasn't 
good  enough." 

199 


THE   TURMOIL 

"But  what  will  you  do?    I  want  to  know." 

"When  I  left,"  said  Bibbs,  "I  was  ' on'  what  they 
call  over  there  a  'clipping-machine,'  in  one  of  the 
'  by-products '  departments,  and  that's  what  I'll  be 
sent  back  to." 

"But  what  is  it?"  she  insisted. 

Bibbs  explained.  "It's  very  simple  and  very 
easy.  I  feed  long  strips  of  zinc  into  a  pair  of  steel 
jaws,  and  the  jaws  bite  the  zinc  into  little  circles. 
All  I  have  to  do  is  to  see  that  the  strip  goes  into 
the  jaws  at  a  certain  angle — and  yet  I  was  a  very 
bad  hand  at  it." 

He  had  kept  his  voice  cheerful  as  he  spoke,  but 
he  had  grown  a  shade  paler,  and  there  was  a  latent 
anguish  deep  in  his  eyes.  He  may  have  known  it 
and  wished  her  not  to  see  it,  for  he  turned  away. 

"You  do  that  all  day  long?"  she  asked,  and  as  he 
nodded,  ' '  It  seems  incredible !"  she  exclaimed.  ' '  You 
feeding  a  strip  of  zinc  into  a  machine  nine  hours  a 
day!  No  wonder — "  She  broke  off,  and  then,  after 
a  keen  glance  at  his  face,  she  said:  "I  should  think 
you  would  have  been  a  'bad  hand  at  it'!" 

He  laughed  ruefully.  "I  think  it's  the  noise, 
though  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it.  You  see,  it's  a  very 
powerful  machine,  and  there's  a  sort  of  rhythmical 
crashing — a  crash  every  time  the  jaws  bite  off  a 
circle." 

"How  often  is  that?" 

"The  thing  should  make  about  sixty-eight  disks 
a  minute — a  little  more  than  one  a  second." 

"And  you're  close  to  it?" 

"Oh,  the  workman  has  to  sit  in  its  lap,"  he  said, 
turning  to  her  more  gaily.  "The  others  don't  mind 

200 


THE   TURMOIL 

You  see,  it's  something  wrong  with  me.  I  have 
an  idiotic  way  of  flinching  from  the  confounded 
thing — I  flinch  and  duck  a  little  every  time  the  crash 
comes,  and  I  couldn't  get  over  it.  I  was  a  treat  to  the 
other  workmen  in  that  room;  they'll  be  glad  to  see 
me  back.  They  used  to  laugh  at  me  all  day  long." 

Mary's  gaze  was  averted  from  Bibbs  now;  she 
sat  with  her  elbow  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  chair, 
her  lifted  hand  pressed  against  her  cheek.  She  was 
staring  at  the  wall,  and  her  eyes  had  a  burning 
brightness  in  them. 

"It  doesn't  seem  possible  any  one  could  do  that 
to  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "No.  He's  not 
kind.  He  ought  to  be  proud  to  help  you  to  the 
leisure  to  write  books;  it  should  be  his  greatest 
privilege  to  have  them  published  for  you — " 

"Can't  you  see  him?"  Bibbs  interrupted,  a  faint 
ripple  of  hilarity  in  his  voice.  "If  he  could  under 
stand  what  you're  saying — and  if  you  can  imagine 
his  taking  such  a  notion,  he'd  have  had  R.  T.  Bloss 
put  up  posters  all  over  the  country:  'Read  B.  Sheri 
dan.  Read  the  Poet  with  a  Punch!'  No.  It's 
just  as  well  he  never  got  the —  But  what's  the  use? 
I've  never  written  anything  worth  printing,  and  I 
never  shall." 

"You  could!"  she  said. 

"That's  because  you've  never  seen  the  poor  little 
things  I've  tried  to  do." 

"You  wouldn't  let  me,  but  I  know  you  could!  Ah, 
it's  a  pity!" 

"It  isn't,"  said  Bibbs,  honestly.  "I  never  could— 
but  you're  the  kindest  lady  in  this  world,  Miss  Ver- 
trees." 

2OI 


THE   TURMOIL 

She  gave  him  a  flashing  glance,  and  it  was  as  kind 
as  he  said  she  was.  "That  sounds  wrong,"  she  said, 
impulsively.  "I  mean  'Miss  Vertrees.'  I've  thought 
of  you  by  your  first  name  ever  since  I  met  you. 
Wouldn't  you  rather  call  me  'Mary'?" 

Bibbs  was  dazzled;  he  drew  a  long,  deep  breath 
and  did  not  speak. 

"Wouldn't  you?"  she  asked,  without  a  trace  of 
coquetry. 

"If  I  can!"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Ah,  that's  very  pretty!"  she  laughed.  "You're 
such  an  honest  person,  it's  pleasant  to  have  you 
gallant  sometimes,  by  way  of  variety."  She  became 
grave  again  immediately.  "I  hear  myself  laughing 
as  if  it  were  some  one  else.  It  sounds  like  laughter 
on  the  eve  of  a  great  calamity."  She  got  up  rest 
lessly,  crossed  the  room  and  leaned  against  the  wall, 
facing  him.  "You've  got  to  go  back  to  that  place?" 

He  nodded. 

"And  the  other  time  you  did  it — " 

"Just  over  it,"  said  Bibbs.  "Two  years.  But  I 
don't  mind  the  prospect  of  a  repetition  so  much 


as—" 


"So  much  as  what?"  she  prompted,  as  he  stopped. 

Bibbs  looked  up  at  her  shyly.  "I  want  to  say 
it,  but — but  I  come  to  a  dead  balk  when  I  try.  I — " 

"Go  on.  Say  it,  whatever  it  is,"  she  bade  him. 
"You  wouldn't  know  how  to  say  anything  I  shouldn't 
like." 

"I  doubt  if  you'd  either  like  or  dislike  what  I 
want  to  say,"  he  returned,  moving  uncomfortably 
in  his  chair  and  looking  at  his  feet — he  seemed  to 
feel  awkward,  thoroughly.  "You  see,  all  my  life 

202 


THE   TURMOIL 

— until  I  met  you — if  I  ever  felt  like  saying  anything, 
I  wrote  it  instead.  Saying  things  is  a  new  trick  for 
me,  and  this — well,  it's  just  this:  I  used  to  feel  as 
if  I  hadn't  ever  had  any  sort  of  a  life  at  all.  I'd 
never  been  of  use  to  anything  or  anybody,  and  I'd 
never  had  anything,  myself,  except  a  kind  of  hap 
hazard  thinking.  But  now  it's  different — I'm  still 
of  no  use  to  anybody,  and  I  don't  see  any  prospect 
of  being  useful,  but  I  have  had  something  for  my 
self.  I've  had  a  beautiful  and  happy  experience, 
and  it  makes  my  life  seem  to  be — I  mean  I'm  glad 
I've  lived  it!  That's  all;  it's  your  letting  me  be 
near  you  sometimes,  as  you  have,  this  strange, 
beautiful,  happy  little  while!" 

He  did  not  once  look  up,  and  reached  silence,  at  the 
end  of  what  he  had  to  say,  with  his  eyes  still  awk 
wardly  regarding  his  feet.  She  did  not  speak,  but 
a  soft  rustling  of  her  garments  let  him  know  that 
she  had  gone  back  to  her  chair  again.  The  house 
was  still;  the  shabby  old  room  was  so  quiet  that  the 
sound  of  a  creaking  in  the  wall  seemed  sharp  and  loud. 

And  yet,  when  Mary  spoke  at  last,  her  voice  was 
barely  audible.  "If  you  think  it  has  been — happy 
— to  be  friends  with  me — you'd  want  to — to  make 
it  last," 

"Yes,"  said  Bibbs,  as  faintly. 

"You'd  want  to  go  on  being  my  friend  as  long 
as  we  live,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  gulped. 

"But  you  make  that  kind  of  speech  to  me  because 
you  think  it's  over." 

He  tried  to  evade  her.  "Oh,  a  day-laborer  can't 
come  in  his  overalls — " 

203 


THE   TURMOIL 

"No,"  she  interrupted,  with  a  sudden  sharpness. 
"You  said  what  you  did  because  you  think  the 
shop's  going  to  kill  you." 

"No,  no!" 

"Yes,  you  do  think  that!"  She  rose  to  her  feet 
again  and  came  and  stood  before  him.  "Or  you 
think  it's  going  to  send  you  back  to  the  sanitarium. 
Don't  deny  it,  Bibbs.  There!  See  how  easily  I' 
call  you  that!  You  see  I'm  a  friend,  or  I  couldn't 
do  it.  Well,  if  you  meant  what  you  said — and  you 
did  mean  it,  I  know  it! — you're  not  going  to  go 
back  to  the  sanitarium.  The  shop  sha'n't  hurt  you. 
It  sha'n't!" 

And  now  Bibbs  looked  up.  She  stood  before  him, 
straight  and  tall,  splendid  in  generous  strength,  her 
eyes  shining  and  wet. 

"If  I  mean  that  much  to  you,"  she  cried,  "they 
can't  harm  you!  Go  back  to  the  shop — but  come 
to  me  when  your  day's  work  is  done.  Let  the  ma 
chines  crash  their  sixty-eight  times  a  minute,  but 
remember  each  crash  that  deafens  you  is  that  much 
nearer  the  evening  and  me!" 

He  stumbled  to  his  feet.  "You  say  —  "  he 
gasped. 

"Every  evening,  dear  Bibbs!" 

He  could  only  stare,  bewildered. 

"Every  evening.  I  want  you.  They  sha'n't  hurt 
you  again!"  And  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him; 
it  was  strong  and  warm  in  his  tremulous  clasp. 
"If  I  could,  I'd  go  and  feed  the  strips  of  zinc  to  the 
machine  with  you,"  she  said.  "But  all  day  long 
I'll  send  my  thoughts  to  you.  You  must  keep  remem 
bering  that  your  friend  stands  beside  you.  And 

204 


THE   TURMOIL 

when  the  work  is  done — won't  the  night  make  up 
for  the  day?" 

Light  seemed  to  glow  from  her;  he  was  blinded 
by  that  radiance  of  kindness.  But  all  he  could  say 
was,  huskily,  "To  think  you're  there — with  me — 
standing  beside  the  old  zinc-eater — " 

And  they  laughed  and  looked  at  each  other,  and 
at  last  Bibbs  found  what  it  meant  not  to  be  alone 
in  the  world.  He  had  a  friend. 


CHAPTER  XX 

\\  THEN  he  came  into  the  New  House,  a  few  min- 

V  V  utes  later,  he  found  his  father  sitting  alone  by 

the  library  fire.    Bibbs  went  in  and  stood  before  him. 

"I'm  cured,  father,"  he  said.  "When  do  I  go 
back  to  the  shop?  I'm  ready." 

The  desolate  and  grim  old  man  did  not  relax. 
"I  was  sittin'  up  to  give  you  a  last  chance  to  say 
something  like  that.  I  reckon  it's  about  time!  I 
just  wanted  to  see  if  you'd  have  manhood  enough 
not  to  make  me  take  you  over  there  by  the  collar., 
Last  night  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  give  you  just 
one  more  day.  Well,  you  got  to  it  before  I  did — 
pretty  close  to  the  eleventh  hour!  All  right.  Start 
in  to-morrow.  It's  the  first  o'  the  month.  Think 
you  can  get  up  in  time?" 

"Six  o'clock,"  Bibbs  responded,  briskly.  "And 
I  want  to  tell  you — I'm  going  in  a  'cheerful  spirit.' 
As  you  said,  I'll  go  and  I'll  'like  it'!" 

"That's  your  lookout!"  his  father  grunted. 
"They'll  put  you  back  on  the  clippin'-  machine. 
You  get  nine  dollars  a  week." 

"More  than  I'm  worth,  too,"  said  Bibbs,  cheerily e 
"That  reminds  me,  I  didn't  mean  you  by  'Midas' 
in  that  nonsense  I'd  been  writing.  I  meant — " 

"Makes  a  hell  of  a  lot  o'  difference  what  you 
meant!" 

206 


THE   TURMOIL 

"I  just  wanted  you  to  know.    Good  night,  father." 

"G'night!" 

The  sound  of  the  young  man's  footsteps  ascend 
ing  the  stairs  became  inaudible,  and  the  house  was 
quiet.  But  presently,  as  Sheridan  sat  staring  angrily 
at  the  fire,  the  shuffling  of  a  pair  of  slippers  could 
be  heard  descending,  and  Mrs.  Sheridan  made  her 
appearance,  her  oblique  expression  and  the  state  of 
her  toilette  being  those  of  a  person  who,  after  trying 
unsuccessfully  to  sleep  on  one  side,  has  got  up  to 
look  for  burglars. 

"Papa!"  she  exclaimed,  drowsily.  "Why'n't  you 
go  to  bed?  It  must  be  goin'  on  'leven  o'clock!" 

She  yawned,  and  seated  herself  near  him,  stretch 
ing  out  her  hands  to  the  fire.  "What's  the  matter?" 
she  asked,  sleep  and  anxiety  striving  sluggishly  with 
each  other  in  her  voice.  "I  knew  you  were  worried 
all  dinner-time.  You  got  something  new  on  your 
mind  besides  Jim's  bein'  taken  away  like  he  was. 
What's  worryin'  you  now,  papa?" 

"Nothiri'." 

She  jeered  feebly.  "N'  tell  me  that!  You  sat  up 
to  see  Bibbs,  didn't  you?" 

"He  starts  in  at  the  shop  again  to-morrow  morn 
ing,"  said  Sheridan. 

"Just  the  same  as  he  did  before?" 

"Just  pre-cisely!" 

"How — how  long  you  goin'  to  keep  him  at  it, 
papa?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

"Until  he  knows  something!"  The  unhappy  man 
struck  his  palms  together,  then  got  to  his  feet  and 
began  to  pace  the  room,  as  was  his  wont  when  he 
talked.  "He'll  go  back  to  the  machine  he  couldn't 

14  207 


THE   TURMOIL 

learn  to  tend  properly  in  the  six  months  he  was 
there,  and  he'll  stick  to  it  till  he  does  learn  it!  Do 
you  suppose  that  lummix  ever  asked  himself  why  I 
want  him  to  learn  it?  No!  And  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
tell  him,  either!  When  he  went  there  I  had  'em  set 
him  on  the  simplest  machine  we  got — and  he  stuck 
there!  How  much  prospect  would  there  be  of  his 
learnin'  to  run  the  whole  business  if  he  can't  run 
the  easiest  machine  in  it  ?  I  sent  him  there  to  make 
him  thorough.  And  what  happened?  He  didn't  like 
it!  That  boy's  whole  life,  there's  been  a  settin'  up 
o*  something  mulish  that's  against  everything  I  want 
him  to  do.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  it's  got  to 
be  worked  out  of  him.  Now,  labor  ain't  any  more 
a  simple  question  than  what  it  was  when  we  were 
young.  My  idea  is  that,  outside  o'  union  troubles, 
the  man  that  can  manage  workin'-men  is  the  man 
that's  been  one  himself.  Well,  I  set  Bibbs  to  learn 
the  men  and  to  learn  the  business,  and  he  set  himself 
to  balk  on  the  first  job!  That's  what  he  did,  and 
the  balk's  lasted  close  on  to  three  years.  If  he  balks 
again  I'm  just  done  with  him!  Sometimes  I  feel 
like  I  was  pretty  near  done  with  everything,  any 
how!" 

"I  knew  there  was  something  else,"  said  Mrs, 
Sheridan,  blinking  over  a  yawn.  "You  better  let 
it  go  till  to-morrow  and  get  to  bed  now — less  you'll 
tell  me?" 

"Suppose  something  happened  to  Roscoe,"  he 
said.  "Then  what 'd  I  have  to  look  forward  to? 
Then  what  could  I  depend  on  to  hold  things  to 
gether?  A  lummix!  A  lummix  that  hasn't  learned 
how  to  push  a  strip  o'  zinc  along  a  groove!" 

208 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Roscoe?"  she  yawned.  "You  needn't  worry 
about  Roscoe,  papa.  He's  the  strongest  child  we 
had.  I  never  did  know  anybody  keep  better  health 
than  he  does.  I  don't  believe  he's  even  had  a  cold 
in  five  years.  You  better  go  up  to  bed,  papa." 

"Suppose  something  did  happen  to  him,  though. 
You  don't  know  what  it  means,  keepin'  property 
together  these  days — just  keepin'  it  alive,  let  alone 
makin'  it  grow  the  way  I  do.  I've  seen  too  many 
estates  hacked  away  in  chunks,  big  and  little.  I 
tell  you  when  a  man  dies  the  wolves  come  out  o'  the 
woods,  pack  after  pack,  to  see  what  they  can  tear 
off  for  themselves;  and  if  that  dead  man's  chuldern 
ain't  on  the  job,  night  and  day,  everything  he  built 
'11  get  carried  off.  Carried  off?  I've  seen  a  big  for 
tune  behave  like  an  ash-barrel  in  a  cyclone — there 
wasn't  even  a  dust-heap  left  to  tell  where  it  stood! 
I've  seen  it,  time  and  time  again.  My  Lord !  when 
I  think  o'  such  things  comin'  to  me!  It  don't  seem 
like  I  deserved  it — no  man  ever  tried  harder  to  raise 
his  boys  right  than  I  have.  I  planned  and  planned 
and  planned  how  to  bring  'em  up  to  be  guards  to 
drive  the  wolves  off,  and  how  to  be  builders  to  build, 
and  build  bigger.  I  tell  you  this  business  life  is  no 
fool's  job  nowadays — a  man's  got  to  have  eyes  in 
the  back  of  his  head.  You  hear  talk,  sometimes, 
'd  make  you  think  the  millennium  had  come — but 
right  the  next  breath  you'll  hear  somebody  hollerin' 
about  'the  great  unrest/  You  bet  there's  a  'great 
unrest' !  There  ain't  any  man  alive  smart  enough 
to  see  what  it's  goin'  to  do  to  us  in  the  end,  nor 
what  day  it's  got  set  to  bust  loose,  but  it's  fro  thin' 
and  bubblin'  in  the  boiler.  This  country's  been  fillin' 

209 


THE   TURMOIL 

up  with  it  from  all  over  the  world  for  a  good  many 
years,  and  the  old  camp-meetin'  days  are  dead  and 
done  with.  Church  ain't  what  it  used  to  be.  Nothings 
what  it  used  to  be — everything's  turned  up  from  the 
bottom,  and  the  growth  is  so  big  the  roots  stick  out 
in  the  air.  There's  an  awful  ruction  goin'  on,  and 
you  got  to  keep  hoppin'  if  you're  goin'  to  keep  your 
balance  on  the  top  of  it.  And  the  schemers!  They 
run  like  bugs  on  the  bottom  of  a  board — after  any 
piece  o*  money  they  hear  is  loose.  Fool  schemes 
and  crooked  schemes;  the  fool  ones  are  the  most 
and  the  worst!  You  got  to  fight  to  keep  your  money 
after  you've  made  it.  And  the  woods  are  full  o' 
mighty  industrious  men  that's  got  only  one  motto: 
'Get  the  other  fellow's  money  before  he  gets  yours!' 
And  when  a  man's  built  as  I  have,  when  he's  built 
good  and  strong,  and  made  good  things  grow  and 
prosper — those  are  the  fellows  that  lay  for  the  chance 
to  slide  in  and  sneak  the  benefit  of  it  and  put  their 
names  to  it!  And  what's  the  use  my  havin'  ever 
been  born,  if  such  a  thing  as  that  is  goin'  to  happen  ? 
What's  the  use  my  havin'  worked  my  life  and  soul 
into  my  business,  if  it's  all  goin'  to  be  dispersed  and 
scattered  soon  as  I'm  in  the  ground?" 

He  strode  up  and  down  the  long  room,  gesticulat 
ing — little  regarding  the  troubled  and  drowsy  figure 
by  the  fireside.  His  throat  rumbled  thunderously; 
the  words  came  with  stormy  bitterness.  "You 
think  this  is  a  time  for  young  men  to  be  lyin*  on 
beds  of  ease?  I  tell  you  there  never  was  such  a  time 
before;  there  never  was  such  opportunity.  The  slug 
gard  is  despoiled  while  he  sleeps — yes,  by  George! 
if  a  man  lays  down  they'll  eat  him  before  he  wakes! 

210 


THE   TURMOIL 

— but  the  live  man  can  build  straight  up  till  he 
touches  the  sky!  This  is  the  business  man's  day; 
it  used  to  be  the  soldier's  day  and  the  statesman's 
day,  but  this  is  ours !  And  it  ain't  a  Sunday  to 
go  fishin' — it's  turmoil !  turmoil ! — and  you  got  to  go 
out  and  live  it  and  breathe  it  and  make  it  yourself, 
or  you'll  only  be  a  dead  man  walkin'  around  dreamin' 
you're  alive.  And  that's  what  my  son  Bibbs  has 
been  doin'  all  his  life,  and  what  he'd  rather  do  now 
than  go  out  and  do  his  part  by  me.  And  if  any 
thing  happens  to  Roscoe — " 

"Oh,  do  stop  worryin'  over  such  nonsense,"  Mrs. 
Sheridan  interrupted,  irritated  into  sharp  wakeful- 
ness  for  the  moment.  "There  isn't  anything  goin' 
to  happen  to  Roscoe,  and  you're  just  tormentin'  your 
self  about  nothin'.  Aren't  you  ever  goin'  to  bed?" 

Sheridan  halted.  "All  right,  mamma,"  he  said, 
with  a  vast  sigh.  "Let's  go  up."  And  he  snapped 
off  the  electric  light,  leaving  only  the  rosy  glow  of 
the  fire. 

"Did  you  speak  to  Roscoe?"  she  yawned,  rising 
lopsidedly  in  her  drowsiness.  "Did  you  mention 
about  what  I  told  you  the  other  evening?" 

"No.     I  will  to-morrow." 

But  Roscoe  did  not  come  down-town  the  next 
day,  nor  the  next;  nor  did  Sheridan  see  fit  to  enter 
his  son's  house.  He  waited.  Then,  on  the  fourth 
day  of  the  month,  Roscoe  walked  into  his  father's 
office  at  nine  in  the  morning,  when  Sheridan  hap 
pened  to  be  alone. 

"They  told  me  down-stairs  you'd  left  word  you 
wanted  to  see  me." 

211 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Sit  down,"  said  Sheridan,  rising. 

Roscoe  sat.  His  father  walked  close  to  him, 
sniffed  suspiciously,  and  then  walked  away,  smiling 
bitterly.  "Boh!"  he  exclaimed.  "Still  at  it!" 

"Yes,"  said  Roscoe.  "I've  had  a  couple  of  drinks 
this  morning.  What  about  it?" 

"I  reckon  I  better  adopt  some  decent  young  man," 
his  father  returned.  "I'd  bring  Bibbs  up  here  and 
put  him  in  your  place  if  he  was  fit.  I  would!" 

"Better  do  it,"  Roscoe  assented,  sullenly. 

"When  'd  you  begin  this  thing?" 

"I  always  did  drink  a  little.  Ever  since  I  grew 
up,  that  is." 

"Leave  that  talk  out!    You  know  what  I  mean." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  had  too  much  in 
office  hours — until  the  other  day." 

Sheridan  began  cutting.  "It's  a  lie.  I've  had 
Ray  Wills  up  from  your  office.  He  didn't  want  to 
give  you  away,  but  I  put  the  hooks  into  him,  and  he 
came  through.  You  were  drunk  twice  before  and 
couldn't  work.  You  been  leavin'  your  office  for 
drinks  every  few  hours  for  the  last  three  weeks.  I 
been  over  your  books.  Your  office  is  way  behind. 
You  haven't  done  any  work,  to  count,  in  a  month." 

"All  right,"  said  Roscoe,  drooping  under  the  tor 
ture.  "It's  all  true." 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

Roscoe 's  head  was  sunk  between  his  shoulders. 
"I  can't  stand  very  much  talk  about  it,  father,"  he 
said,  pleadingly. 

"No!"  Sheridan  cried.  "Neither  can  I!  What  do 
you  think  it  means  to  me?"  He  dropped  into  the 
chair  at  his  big  desk,  groaning.  "I  can't  stand  to 

212 


THE   TURMOIL 

talk  about  it  any  more'n  you  can  to  listen,  but  I'm 
goin'  to  find  out  what's  the  matter  with  you,  and  I'm 
goin'  to  straighten  you  out!" 

Roscoe  shook  his  head  helplessly. 

"You  can't  straighten  me  out." 

"See  here!"  said  Sheridan.  "Can  you  go  back 
to  your  office  and  stay  sober  to-day,  while  I  get  my 
work  done,  or  will  I  have  to  hire  a  couple  o'  huskies 
to  follow  you  around  and  knock  the  whiskey  out  o' 
your  hand  if  they  see  you  tryin'  to  take  it?" 

"You  needn't  worry  about  that,"  said  Roscoe, 
looking  up  with  a  faint  resentment.  "I'm  not 
drinking  because  I've  got  a  thirst." 

"Well,  what  have  you  got?" 

"Nothing.  Nothing  you  can  do  anything  about. 
Nothing,  I  tell  you." 

"We'll  see  about  that!"  said  Sheridan,  harshly. 
"Now  I  can't  fool  with  you  to-day,  and  you  get  up 
out  o'  that  chair  and  get  out  o'  my  office.  You 
bring  your  wife  to  dinner  to-morrow.  You  didn't 
come  last  Sunday — but  you  come  to-morrow.  I'll 
talk  this  out  with  you  when  the  women-folks  are 
workin'  the  phonograph,  after  dinner.  Can  you 
keep  sober  till  then?  You  better  be  sure,  because 
I'm  goin'  to  send  Abercrombie  down  to  your  office 
every  little  while,  and  he'll  let  me  know." 

Roscoe  paused  at  the  door.  "You  told  Aber 
crombie  about  it?"  he  asked. 

"Told  him!"  And  Sheridan  laughed  hideously. 
"Do  you  suppose  there's  an  elevator-boy  in  the 
whole  dam'  building  that  ain't  on  to  you?" 

Roscoe  settled  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes  and 
went  out. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"Who  looks  a  mustang  in  the  eye? 
Changety,  chang,  chang!    Bash!  Crash!  Bangl" 

SO  sang  Bibbs,  his  musical  gaieties  inaudible  to 
his  fellow-workmen  because  of  the  noise  of  the 
machinery.  He  had  discovered  long  ago  that  the 
uproar  was  rhythmical,  and  it  had  been  intolerable; 
but  now,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  of  his 
return,  he  was  accompanying  the  swing  and  clash 
of  the  metals  with  jubilant  vaquero  fragments, 
mingling  improvisations  of  his  own  among  them, 
and  mocking  the  zinc-eater's  crash  with  vocal  imi 
tations: 

Fearless  and  bold, 
Chang!    Bash!    Behold! 
With  a  leap  from  the  ground 
To  the  saddle  in  a  bound, 

And  away — and  away! 

Hi-yay! 

Who  looks  a  chang,  chang,  bash,  crash,  bang! 
Who  cares  a  dash  how  you  bash  and  you  crash? 

Night's  on  the  way 

Each  time  I  say, 

Ri-yay! 
Crash,  chang!    Bash,  chang!    Chang,  bang,  bang! 

The  long  room  was  ceaselessly  thundering  with 
metallic  sound;   the  air  was  thick  with  the  smell  of 

214 


THE   TURMOIL 

oil;  the  floor  trembled  perpetually;  everything  was 
implacably  in  motion — nowhere  was  there  a  rest  for 
the  dizzied  eye.  The  first  time  he  had  entered  the 
place  Bibbs  had  become  dizzy  instantly,  and  six 
months  of  it  had  only  added  increasing  nausea  to 
faintness.  But  he  felt  neither  now.  "All  day  long 
I'll  send  my  thoughts  to  you.  You  must  keep  remem 
bering  that  your  friend  stands  beside  you."  He  saw 
her  there  beside  him,  and  the  greasy,  roaring  place 
became  suffused  with  radiance.  The  poet  was  happy 
in  his  machine-shop;  he  was  still  a  poet  there.  And 
he  fed  his  old  zinc-eater,  and  sang: 

Away — and  away! 
Hi-yay/ 

Crash,  bash,  crash,  bash,  changl 
Wild  are  his  eyes, 
Fiercely  he  dies! 

Hi-yay! 

Crash,  bash,  bang!    Bash,  changl 
Ready  to  fling 
Our  gloves  in  the  ring — 

He  was  unaware  of  a  sensation  that  passed  along 
the  lines  of  workmen.  Their  great  master  had  come 
among  them,  and  they  grinned  to  see  him  stand 
ing  with  Dr.  Gurney  behind  the  unconscious  Bibbs. 
Sheridan  nodded  to  those  nearest  him — he  had  per 
sonal  acquaintance  with  nearly  all  of  them — but  he 
kept  his  attention  upon  his  son.  Bibbs  worked 
steadily,  never  turning  from  his  machine.  Now  and 
then  he  varied  his  musical  programme  with  remarks 
addressed  to  the  zinc-eater. 

"Go  on,  you  old  crash-basher!  Chew  it  up!  It's 
good  for  you,  if  you  don't  try  to  bolt  your  vittles. 

215 


THE   TURMOIL 

Fletcherize,  you  pig!  That's  right — you'll  never 
get  a  lump  in  your  gizzard.  Want  some  more? 
Here's  a  nice,  shiny  one." 

The  words  were  indistinguishable,  but  Sheridan 
inclined  his  head  to  Gurney's  ear  and  shouted 
fiercely :  ' '  Talkin'  to  himself !  By  George !" 

Gurney  laughed  reassuringly,  and  shook  his  head. 

Bibbs  returned  to  song: 

Chang!    Chang,  bash,  chang!    It's  // 
Who  looks  a  rrustang  in  the  eye? 
Fearless  and  bo — 

His  father  grasped  him  by  the  arm.  "Here!"  he 
shouted.  "Let  me  show  you  how  to  run  a  strip 
through  there.  The  foreman  says  you're  some  bet- 
ter'n  you  used  to  be,  but  that's  no  way  to  handle — 
Get  out  the  way  and  let  me  show  you  once." 

"Better  be  careful,"  Bibbs  warned  him,  stepping 
to  one  side. 

"Careful?  Boh!"  Sheridan  seized  a  strip  of  zinc 
from  the  box.  "What  you  talkin'  to  yourself  about? 
Tryin'  to  make  yourself  think  you're  so  abused 
you're  goin'  wrong  in  the  head?" 

"'Abused'?  No!"  shouted  Bibbs.  "I  was  sing 
ing — because  I  'like  it'!  I  told  you  I'd  come  back 
and  'like  it."' 

Sheridan  may  not  have  understood.  At  all  events, 
he  made  no  reply,  but  began  to  run  the  strip  of 
zinc  through  the  machine.  He  did  it  awkwardly — 
and  with  bad  results. 

"Here!"  he  shouted.  "This  is  the  way.  Watch 
how  /  do  it.  There's  nothin'  to  it,  if  you  put  your 
mind  on  it."  By  his  own  showing  then  his  mind 

216 


THE   TURMOIL 

was  not  upon  it.  He  continued  to  talk.  "All  you 
got  to  look  out  for  is  to  keep  it  pressed  over  to — " 

"Don't  run  your  hand  up  with  it,"  Bibbs  vocif 
erated,  leaning  toward  him. 

"Run  nothin'!    You  got  to—" 

"Look  out!"  shouted  Bibbs  and  Gurney  together, 
and  they  both  sprang  forward.  But  Sheridan's  right 
hand  had  followed  the  strip  too  far,  and  the  zinc- 
eater  had  bitten  off  the  tips  of  the  first  and  second 
fingers.  He  swore  vehemently,  and  wrung  his  hand, 
sending  a  shower  of  red  drops  over  himself  and  Bibbs, 
but  Gurney  grasped  his  wrist,  and  said,  sharply: 

"Come  out  of  here.  Come  over  to  the  lavatory 
in  the  office.  Bibbs,  fetch  my  bag.  It's  in  my 
machine,  outside." 

And  when  Bibbs  brought  the  bag  to  the  wash 
room  he  found  the  doctor  still  grasping  Sheridan's 
wrist,  holding  the  injured  hand  over  a^basin.  Sheri 
dan  had  lost  color,  and  temper,  too.  He  glared 
over  his  shoulder  at  his  son  as  the  latter  handed 
the  bag  to  Gurney. 

"You  go  on  back  to  your  work,"  he  said.  "I've 
had  worse  snips  than  that  from  a  pencil-sharpener." 

"Oh  no,  you  haven't!"  said  Gurney. 

"I  have,  too!"  Sheridan  retorted,  angrily.  "Bibbs, 
you  go  on  back  to  your  work.  There's  no  reason  to 
stand  around  here  watchin'  ole  Doc  Gurney  tryin'  to 
keep  himself  awake  workin'  on  a  scratch  that  only 
needs  a  little  court-plaster.  I  slipped,  or  it  wouldn't 
happened.  You  get  back  on  your  job." 

"All  right,"  said  Bibbs. 

"Here!"  Sheridan  bellowed,  as  his  son  was  pass 
ing  out  of  the  door.  "You  watch  out  when  you're 

217 


THE   TURMOIL 

runnin'  that  machine!  You  hear  what  I  say?  I 
slipped,  or  I  wouldn't  got  scratched,  but  you — you're 
liable  to  get  your  whole  hand  cut  off!  You  keep  your 
eyes  open!" 

"Yes,  sir."  And  Bibbs  returned  to  the  zinc- 
eater  thoughtfully. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Gurney  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  beckoned  him  outside,  where  conver 
sation  was  possible.  "I  sent  him  home,  Bibbs. 
He'll  have  to  be  careful  of  that  hand.  Go  get  your 
overalls  off.  I'll  take  you  for  a  drive  and  leave 
you  at  home." 

"Can't,"  said  Bibbs.  "Got  to  stick  to  my  job 
till  the  whistle  blows." 

"No,  you  don't,"  the  doctor  returned,  smothering 
a  yawn.  "He  wants  me  to  take  you  down  to  my 
office  and  give  you  an  overhauling  to  see  how  much 
harm  these  four  days  on  the  machine  have  done 
you.  I  guess  you  folks  have  got  that  old  man  pretty 
thoroughly  upset,  between  you,  up  at  your  house! 
But  I  don't  need  to  go  over  you.  I  can  see  with  my 
eyes  half  shut — ' 

"Yes,"  Bibbs  interrupted,  "that's  what  they 
are." 

"I  say  I  can  see  you're  starting  out,  at  least,  in 
good  shape.  What's  made  the  difference?" 

"I  like  the  machine,"  said  Bibbs.  "I've  made  a 
friend  of  it.  I  serenade  it  and  talk  to  it,  and  then 
it  talks  back  to  me." 

"Indeed,  indeed?    What  does  it  say?" 

"What  I  want  to  hear." 

"Well,  well!"  The  doctor  stretched  himself  and 
stamped  his  foot  repeatedly.  "Better  come  along 

218 


THE   TURMOIL 

and  take  a  drive  with  me.    You  can  take  the  time 
off  that  he  allowed  for  the  examination,  and  —  " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Bibbs.    "I'm  going  to  stand  by 
my  old  zinc-eater  till  five  o'clock.     I  tell  you  I 


"Then  I  suppose  that's  the  end  of  your  wanting 
to  write." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  Bibbs  said,  thought 
fully;  "but  the  zinc-eater  doesn't  interfere  with  my 
thinking,  at  least.  It's  better  than  being  in  busi 
ness;  I'm  sure  of  that.  I  don't  want  anything  to 
change.  I'd  be  content  to  lead  just  the  life  I'm  lead 
ing  now  to  the  end  of  my  days." 

"You  do  beat  the  devil!"  exclaimed  Gurney. 
"Your  father's  right  when  he  tells  me  you're  a 
mystery.  Perhaps  the  Almighty  knew  what  He  was 
doing  when  He  made  you,  but  it  takes  a  lot  of  faith 
to  believe  it!  Well,  I'm  off.  Go  on  back  to  your 
murdering  old  machine."  He  climbed  into  his  car, 
which  he  operated  himself,  but  he  refrained  from 
setting  it  immediately  in  motion.  "Well,  I  rubbed 
it  in  on  the  old  man  that  you  had  warned  him  not 
to  slide  his  hand  along  too  far,  and  that  he  got  hurt 
because  he  didn't  pay  attention  to  your  warning, 
and  because  he  was  trying  to  show  you  how  to  do 
something  you  were  already  doing  a  great  deal  better 
than  he  could.  You  tell  him  I'll  be  around  to  look 
at  it  and  change  the  dressing  to-morrow  morning. 
Good-by." 

But  when  he  paid  the  promised  visit,  the  next 
morning,  he  did  more  than  change  the  dressing 
upon  the  damaged  hand.  The  injury  was  severe  of 
its  kind,  and  Gurney  spent  a  long  time  over  it, 

219 


THE   TURMOIL 

though  Sheridan  was  rebellious  and  scornful,  being 
brought  to  a  degree  of  tractability  only  by  means  of 
horrible  threats  and  talk  of  amputation.  However, 
he  appeared  at  the  dinner-table  with  his  hand  sup 
ported  in  a  sling,  which  he  seemed  to  regard  as  an 
indignity,  while  the  natural  inquiries  upon  the  sub 
ject  evidently  struck  him  as  deliberate  insults.  Mrs. 
Sheridan,  having  been  unable  to  contain  her  solici 
tude  several  times  during  the  day,  and  having  been 
checked  each  time  in  a  manner  that  blanched  her 
cheek,  hastened  to  warn  Roscoe  and  Sibyl,  upon  their 
arrival  at  five,  to  omit  any  reference  to  the  injury 
and  to  avoid  even  looking  at  the  sling  if  they  pos 
sibly  could. 

The  Sheridans  dined  on  Sundays  at  five.  Sibyl 
had  taken  pains  not  to  arrive  either  before  or  after 
the  hand  was  precisely  on  the  hour;  and  the  mem 
bers  of  the  family  were  all  seated  at  the  table  within 
two  minutes  after  she  and  Roscoe  had  entered  the 
house. 

It  was  a  glum  gathering,  overhung  with  portents. 
The  air  seemed  charged,  awaiting  any  tiny  ignition 
to  explode;  and  Mrs.  Sheridan's  expression,  as  she 
sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  almost  continually  upon  her 
husband,  was  that  of  a  person  engaged  in  prayer. 
Edith  was  pale  and  intenjt.  Roscoe  looked  ill ;  Sibyl 
looked  ill;  and  Sheridan  looked  both  ill  and  explo 
sive.  Bibbs  had  more  color  than  any  of  these,  and 
there  was  a  strange  brightness,  like  a  light,  upon  his 
face.  It  was  curious  to  see  anything  so  happy  in 
the  tense  gloom  of  that  household. 

Edith  ate  little,  but  gazed  nearly  all  the  time  at 
her  plate.  She  never  once  looked  at  Sibyl,  though 

220 


THE    TURMOIL 

Sibyl  now  and  then  gave  her  a  quick  glance,  heavily 
charged,  and  then  looked  away.  Roscoe  ate  noth 
ing,  and,  like  Edith,  kept  his  eyes  upon  his  plate  and 
made  believe  to  occupy  himself  with  the  viands 
thereon,  loading  his  fork  frequently,  but  not  lifting 
it  to  his  mouth.  He  did  not  once  look  at  his  father, 
though  his  father  gazed  heavily  at  him  most  of  the 
time.  And  between  Edith  and  Sibyl,  and  between 
Roscoe  and  his  father,  some  bitter  wireless  communi 
cation  seemed  continually  to  be  taking  place  through 
out  the  long  silences  prevailing  during  this  enliven 
ing  ceremony  of  Sabbath  refection. 

"Didn't  you  go  to  church  this  morning,  Bibbs?" 
his  mother  asked,  in  the  effort  to  break  up  one  of 
those  ghastly  intervals. 

"What  did  you  say,  mother?" 

"Didn't  you  go  to  church  this  morning?" 

"I  think  so,"  he  answered,  as  from  a  roseate 
trance. 

"You  think  so!     Don't  you  know?" 

"Oh  yes.    Yes,  I  went  to  church!" 

"Which  one?" 

"Just  down  the  street.     It's  brick." 

"What  was  the  sermon  about?" 

"What,  mother?" 

"Can't  you  hear  me?"  she  cried.  "I  asked  you 
what  the  sermon  was  about?" 

He  roused  himself.  "I  think  it  was  about — " 
He  frowned,  seeming  to  concentrate  his  will  to  recol 
lect.  "I  think  it  was  about  something  in  the  Bible." 

White- jacket  George  was  glad  of  an  opportunity 
to  leave  the  room  and  lean  upon  Mist'  Jackson's 
shoulder  in  the  pantry.  "He  don't  know  they  was 

221 


THE   TURMOIL 

any  suhmon!"  he  concluded,  having  narrated  the 
dining-room  dialogue.  "All  he  know  is  he  was  with 
'at  lady  lives  nex'  do'!"  George  was  right. 

"Did  you  go  to  church  all  by  yourself,  Bibbs?" 
Sibyl  asked. 

"No,"  he  answered.     "No,  I  didn't  go  alone." 

"Oh?"  Sibyl  gave  the  ejaculation  an  upward 
twist,  as  of  mocking  inquiry,  and  followed  it  by 
another,  expressive  of  hilarious  comprehension. 
"OW" 

Bibbs  looked  at  her  studiously,  but  she  spoke  no 
further.  And  that  completed  the  conversation  at 
the  lugubrious  feast. 

Coffee  came  finally,  was  disposed  of  quickly,  and 
the  party  dispersed  to  other  parts  of  the  house. 
Bibbs  followed  his  father  and  Roscoe  into  the  library, 
but  was  not  well  received. 

"You  go  and  listen  to  the  phonograph  with  the 
women-folks,"  Sheridan  commanded. 

Bibbs  retreated.  "Sometimes  you  do  seem  to  be 
a  hard  sort  of  man!"  he  said. 

However,  he  went  obediently  into  the  gilt-and- 
brocade  room  to  which  his  mother  and  his  sister  and 
his  sister-in-law  had  helplessly  withdrawn,  accord 
ing  to  their  Sabbatical  custom.  Edith  sat  in  a  cor 
ner,  tapping  her  feet  together  and  looking  at  them; 
Sibyl  sat  in  the  center  of  the  room,  examining  a 
brooch  which  she  had  detached  from  her  throat ;  and 
Mrs.  Sheridan  was  looking  over  a  collection  of  records 
consisting  exclusively  of  Caruso  and  rag-time.  She 
selected  one  of  the  latter,  remarking  that  she  thought 
it  "right  pretty,"  and  followed  it  with  one  of  the 
former  and  the  same  remark. 

222 


THE   TURMOIL 

As  the  second  reached  its  conclusion,  George  ap 
peared  in  the  broad  doorway,  seeming  to  have  an 
errand  there,  but  he  did  not  speak.  Instead,  he 
favored  Edith  with  a  benevolent  smile,  and  she  im 
mediately  left  the  room,  George  stepping  aside  for 
her  to  precede  him,  and  then  disappearing  after  her 
in  the  hall  with  an  air  of  successful  diplomacy.  He 
made  it  perfectly  clear  that  Edith  had  given  him 
secret  instructions  and  that  it  had  been  his  pride 
and  pleasure  to  fulfil  them  to  the  letter. 

Sibyl  stiffened  in  her  chair;  her  lips  parted,  and 
she  watched  with  curious  eyes  the  vanishing  back 
of  the  white  jacket. 

" What's  that?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  but 
sharply. 

"Here's  another  right  pretty  record,"  said  Mrs. 
Sheridan,  affecting — with  patent  nervousness — not  to 
hear.  And  she  unloosed  the  music. 

Sibyl  bit  her  lip  and  began  to  tap  her  chin  with 
the  brooch.  After  a  little  while  she  turned  to  Bibbs, 
who  reposed  at  half-length  in  a  gold  chair,  with  his 
eyes  closed. 

"Where  did  Edith  go?"  she  asked,  curiously. 

"Edith?"  he  repeated,  opening  his  eyes  blankly. 
"Is  she  gone?" 

Sibyl  got  up  and  stood  in  the  doorway.  She 
leaned  against  the  casing,  still  tapping  her  chin  with 
the  brooch.  Her  eyes  were  dilating;  she  was  sud 
denly  at  high  tension,  and  her  expression  had  become 
one  of  sharp  excitement.  She  listened  intently. 

When  the  record  was  spun  out  she  could  hear 
Sheridan  rumbling  in  the  library,  during  the  ensuing 
silence,  and  Roscoe's  voice,  querulous  and  husky: 

15  223 


THE   TURMOIL 

"I  won't  say  anything  at  all.  I  tell  you,  you  might 
just  as  well  let  me  alone  I" 

But  there  were  other  sounds:  a  rustling  and  mur 
mur,  whispering,  low  protesting  cadences  in  a  male 
voice.  And  as  Mrs.  Sheridan  started  another  record, 
a  sudden,  vital  resolve  leaped  like  fire  in  the  eyes  of 
Sibyl.  She  walked  down  the  hall  and  straight  into 
the  smoking-room. 

Lamhorn  and  Edith  both  sprang  to  their  feet, 
separating.  Edith  became  instantly  deathly  white 
with  a  rage  that  set  her  shaking  from  head  to  foot, 
and  Lamhorn  stuttered  as  he  tried  to  speak. 

But  Edith's  shaking  was  not  so  violent  as  Sibyl's, 
nor  was  her  face  so  white.  At  sight  of  them  and 
of  their  embrace,  all  possible  consequences  became 
nothing  to  Sibyl.  She  court esied,  holding  up  her 
skirts  and  contorting  her  lips  to  the  semblance  of  a 
smile. 

I  'Sit  just  as  you  were — both  of  you!"  she  said. 
And  then  to  Edith:    "Did  you  tell  my  husband  I 
had  been  telephoning  to  Lamhorn?" 

"You  march  out  of  here!"  said  Edith,  fiercely. 
"March  straight  out  of  here!" 

Sibyl  leveled  a  forefinger  at  Lamhorn. 

"Did  you  tell  her  I'd  been  telephoning  you  I 
wanted  you  to  come?" 

"Oh,  good  God!"  Lamhorn  said.     "Hush!" 

"You  knew  she'd  tell  my  husband,  didn't  you?" 
she  cried.  "You  knew  that!" 

II  Husk!1'  he  begged,  panic-stricken. 

"That  was  a  manly  thing  to  do!  Oh,  it  was  like 
a  gentleman!  You  wouldn't  come — you  wouldn't 
even  come  for  five  minutes  to  hear  what  I  had  to 

224 


THE   TURMOIL 

say!  You  were  tired  of  what  I  had  to  say!  You'd 
heard  it  all  a  thousand  times  before,  and  you  wouldn't 
come !  No !  No !  No  /"  she  stormed.  ' '  You  wouldn't 
even  come  for  five  minutes,  but  you  could  tell  that 
little  cat!  And  she  told  my  husband!  You're  a 
man!" 

Edith  saw  in  a  flash  that  the  consequences  of 
battle  would  be  ruinous  to  Sibyl,  and  the  furious  girl 
needed  no  further  temptation  to  give  way  to  her 
feelings.  "Get  out  of  this  house!"  she  shrieked. 
"This  is  my  father's  house.  Don't  you  dare  speak 
to  Robert  like  that!" 

"No!    No!    I  mustn't  speak—11 

"Don't  you  dare!" 

Edith  and  Sibyl  began  to  scream  insults  at  each 
other  simultaneously,  fronting  each  other,  their  fu 
rious  faces  close.  Their  voices  shrilled  and  rose 
and  cracked — they  screeched.  They  could  be  heard 
over  the  noise  of  the  phonograph,  which  was  playing 
a  brass-band  selection.  They  could  be  heard  all  over 
the  house.  They  were  heard  in  the  kitchen;  they 
could  have  been  heard  in  the  cellar.  Neither  of 
them  cared  for  that. 

"You  told  my  husband!"  screamed  Sibyl,  bring 
ing  her  face  still  closer  to  Edith's.  "You  told  my 
husband!  This  man  put  that  in  your  hands  to  strike 
me  with!  He.  did!"  ' 

"I'll  tell  your  husband  again!  I'll  tell  him  every 
thing  I  know!  It's  time  your  husband — " 

They  were  swept  asunder  by  a  bandaged  hand. 
"Do  you  want  the  neighbors  in?"  Sheridan  thun 
dered. 

There  fell  a  shocking  silence.  Frenzied  Sibyl  saw 

225 


THE   TURMOIL 

her  husband  and  his  mother  in  the  doorway,  and  she 
understood  what  she  had  done.  She  moved  slowly 
toward  the  door;  then  suddenly  she  began  to  run. 
She  ran  into  the  hall,  and  through  it,  and  out  of  the 
house.  Roscoe  followed  her  heavily,  his  eyes  on  the 
ground. 

"Now  then!1'  said  Sheridan  to  Lamhorn. 

The  words  were  indefinite,  but  the  voice  was  not. 
Neither  was  the  vicious  gesture  of  the  bandaged 
hand,  which  concluded  its  orbit  in  the  direction  of  the 
door  in  a  manner  sufficient  for  the  swift  dispersal  of 
George  and  Jackson  and  several  female  servants  who 
hovered  behind  Mrs.  Sheridan.  They  fled  lightly. 

"Papa,  papa!"  wailed  Mrs.  Sheridan.  "Look  at 
your  hand !  You'd  oughtn't  to  been  so  rough  with 
Edie;  you  hurt  your  hand  on  her  shoulder.  Look!" 

There  was,  in  fact,  a  spreading  red  stain  upon  the 
bandages  at  the  tips  of  the  fingers,  and  Sheridan  put 
his  hand  back  in  the  sling.  "Now  then!"  he  re 
peated.  "You  goin'  to  leave  my  house?" 

"He  will  not!"  sobbed  Edith.  "Don't  you  dare 
order  him  out!" 

"Don't  you  bother,  dear,"  said  Lamhorn,  quietly. 
1 ' He  doesn't  understand.  You  mustn't  be  troubled." 
Pallor  was  becoming  to  him;  he  looked  very  hand 
some,  and  as  he  left  the  room  he  seemed  in  the 
girl's  distraught  eyes  a  persecuted  noble,  indifferent 
to  the  rabble  yawping  insult  at  his  heels — the  rabble 
being  enacted  by  her  father. 

"Don't  come  back,  either!"  said  Sheridan,  realistic 
in  this  impersonation.  "Keep  off  the  premises!" 
he  called  savagely  into  the  hall.  "This  family's 
through  with  you!" 

226 


THE   TURMOIL 

"It  is  not!"  Edith  cried,  breaking  from  her  mother. 
"You'll  see  about  that!  You'll  find  out!  You'll 
find  out  what '11  happen!  What's  he  done?  I  guess 
if  I  can  stand  it,  it's  none  of  your  business,  is  it? 
What's  he  done,  I'd  like  to  know?  You  don't  know 
anything  about  it.  Don't  you  s'pose  he  told  me? 
She  was  crazy  about  him  soon  as  he  began  going 
there,  and  he  flirted  with  her  a  little.  That's  every 
thing  he  did,  and  it  was  before  he  met  me!  After 
that  he  wouldn't,  and  it  wasn't  anything,  anyway 
— he  never  was  serious  a  minute  about  it.  She 
wanted  it  to  be  serious,  and  she  was  bound  she 
wouldn't  give  him  up.  He  told  her  long  ago  he 
cared  about  me,  but  she  kept  persecuting  him  and— 

"Yes,"  said  Sheridan,  sternly;  "that's  his  side 
of  it!  That'll  do!  He  doesn't  come  in  this  house 
again!" 

"You  look  out!"  Edith  cried. 

"Yes,  I'll  look  out!  I'd  'a'  told  you  to-day  he 
wasn't  to  be  allowed  on  the  premises,  but  I  had  other 
things  on  my  mind.  I  had  Abercrombie  look  up 
this  young  man  privately,  and  he's  no  'count.  He's 
no  'count  on  earth!  He's  no  good!  He's  nothin'! 
But  it  wouldn't  matter  if  he  was  George  Washing 
ton,  after  what's  happened  and  what  I've  heard  to 
night!" 

"But,  papa,"  Mrs.  Sheridan  began,  "if  Edie  says 
it  was  all  Sibyl's  fault,  makin'  up  to  him,  and  he 
never  encouraged  her  much,  nor— 

"'S  enough!"  he  roared.  "He  keeps  off  these 
premises!  And  if  any  of  you  so  much  as  ever  speak 
his  name  to  me  again — 

But  Edith  screamed,  clapping  her  hands  over  her 

227 


THE   TURMOIL 

ears  to  shut  out  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  ran 
up-stairs,  sobbing  loudly,  followed  by  her  mother. 
However,  Mrs.  Sheridan  descended  a  few  minutes 
later  and  joined  her  husband  in  the  library.  Bibbs, 
still  sitting  in  his  gold  chair,  saw  her  pass,  roused 
himself  from  reverie,  and  strolled  in  after  her. 

"She  locked  her  door,"  said  Mrs.  Sheridan,  shak 
ing  her  head  woefully.  "She  wouldn't  even  answer 
me.  They  wasn't  a  sound  from  her  room." 

"Well,"  said  her  husband,  "she  can  settle  her 
mind  to  it.  She  never  speaks  to  that  fellow  again, 
and  if  he  tries  to  telephone  her  to-morrow —  Here! 
You  tell  the  help  if  he  calls  up  to  ring  off  and  say 
it's  my  orders.  No,  you  needn't.  I'll  tell  'em  my 
self." 

"Better  not,"  said  Bibbs,  gently. 

His  father  glared  at  him. 

"It's  no  good,"  said  Bibbs.  "Mother,  when  you 
were  in  love  with  father — " 

"My  goodness!"  she  cried.  "You  ain't  a-goin* 
to  compare  your  father  to  that — " 

"Edith  feels  about  him  just  what  you  did  about 
father,"  said  Bibbs.  "And  if  your  father  had  told 
you—" 

"I  won't  listen  to  such  silly  talk!"  she  declared, 
angrily. 

"So  you're  handin'  out  your  advice,  are  you, 
Bibbs?"  said  Sheridan.  "What  is  it?" 

"Let  her  see  him  all  she  wants." 

"You're  a—"  Sheridan  gave  it  up.  "I  don't 
know  what  to  call  you!" 

"Let  her  see  him  all  she  wants,"  Bibbs  repeated, 
thoughtfully.  "You're  up  against  something  too 

228 


THE   TURMOIL 

strong  for  you.  If  Edith  were  a  weakling  you'd 
have  a  chance  this  way,  but  she  isn't.  She's  got 
a  lot  of  your  determination,  father,  and  with  what's 
going  on  inside  of  her  she'll  beat  you.  You  can't 
keep  her  from  seeing  him,  as  long  as  she  feels  about 
him  the  way  she  does  now.  You  can't  make  her 
think  less  of  him,  either.  Nobody  can.  Your  only 
chance  is  that  she'll  do  it  for  herself,  and  if  you  give 
her  time  and  go  easy  she  probably  will.  Marriage 
would  do  it  for  her  quickest,  but  that's  just  what 
you  don't  want,  and  as  you  don't  want  it,  you'd 
better—" 

"I  can't  stand  any  more!"  Sheridan  burst  out. 
"If  it's  come  to  Bibbs  advisin'  me  how  to  run  this 
house  I  better  resign.  Mamma,  where's  that  nigger 
George?  Maybe  he's  got  some  plan  how  I  better 
manage  my  family.  Bibbs,  for  God's  sake  go  and 
lay  down!  'Let  her  see  him  all  she  wants'!  Oh, 
Lord!  here's  wisdom;  here's—" 

"Bibbs,"  said  Mrs.  Sheridan,  "if  you  haven't 
got  anything  to  do,  you  might  step  over  and  take 
Sibyl's  wraps  home — she  left  'em  in  the  hall.  I 
don't  think  you  seem  to  quiet  your  poor  father  very 
much  just  now." 

"All  right."  And  Bibbs  bore  Sibyl's  wraps  across 
the  street  and  delivered  them  to  Roscoe,  who  met 
him  at  the  door.  Bibbs  said  only,  "Forgot  these," 
and,  "Good  night,  Roscoe,"  cordially  and  cheerfully, 
and  returned  to  the  New  House.  His  mother  and 
father  were  still  talking  in  the  library,  but  with 
discretion  he  passed  rapidly  on  and  upward  to  his 
own  room,  and  there  he  proceeded  to  write  in  his 
note-book. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

'T'HERE   seems   to  be   another   curious  thing   about  Love 
1    [Bibbs  wrote].     Love   is   blind   while   it   lives   and  only 
opens  its  eyes  and  becomes  very  wide  awake  when  it  dies.    Let 
it  alone  until  then. 

You  cannot  reason  with  love  or  with  any  other  passion.  The 
wise  will  not  wish  for  love — nor  for  ambition.  These  are  pas 
sions  and  bring  others  in  their  train — hatreds  and  jealousies — 
all  blind.  Friendship  and  a  quiet  heart  for  the  wise. 

What  a  turbulence  is  love!  It  is  dangerous  for  a  blind  thing 
to  be  turbulent;  there  are  precipices  in  life.  One  would  not 
cross  a  mountain-pass  with  a  thick  cloth  over  his  eyes.  Lovers 
do.  Friendship  walks  gently  and  with  open  eyes. 

To  walk  to  church  with  a  friend!  To  sit  beside  her  there! 
To  rise  when  she  rises,  and  to  touch  with  one's  thumb  and 
fingers  the  other  half  of  the  hymn-book  that  she  holds!  What 
lover,  with  his  fierce  ways,  could  know  this  transcendent  hap 
piness? 

Friendship  brings  everything  that  heaven  could  bring.  There 
is  no  labor  that  cannot  become  a  living  rapture  if  you  know 
that  a  friend  is  thinking  of  you  as  you  labor.  So  you  sing  at 
your  work.  For  the  work  is  part  of  the  thought?  of  your  friend; 
so  you  love  it! 

Love  is  demanding  and  claiming  and  insistent.  Friendship 
is  all  kindness  —  it  makes  the  world  glorious  with  kindness. 
What  color  you  see  when  you  walk  with  a  friend!  You  see  that 
the  gray  sky  is  brilliant  and  shimmering;  you  see  that  the  smoke 
has  warm  browns  and  is  marvelously  sculptured — the  air  be 
comes  iridescent.  You  see  the  gold  in  brown  hair.  Light  floods 
everything. 

When  you  walk  to  church  with  a  friend  you  know  that  life 
can  give  you  nothing  richer.  You  pray  that  there  will  be  no 
change  in  anything  for  ever. 

230 


THE  TURMOIL 

^ 

What  an  adorable  thing  it  is  to  discover  a  little  foible  in  your 
friend,  a  bit  of  vanity  that  gives  you  one  thing  more  about 
her  to  adore!  On  a  cold  morning  she  will  perhaps  walk  to  church 
with  you  without  her  furs,  and  she  will  blush  and  return  an 
evasive  answer  when  you  ask  her  why  she  does  not  wear  them. 
You  will  say  no  more,  because  you  understand.  She  looks 
beautiful  in  her  furs;  you  love  their  darkness  against  her  cheek; 
but  you  comprehend  that  they  conceal  the  loveliness  of  her 
throat  and  the  fine  line  of  her  chin,  and  that  she  also  has  com 
prehended  this,  and,  wishing  to  look  still  more  bewitching,  dis 
cards  her  furs  at  the  risk  of  taking  cold.  So  you  hold  your 
peace,  and  try  to  look  as  if  you  had  not  thought  it  out. 

This  theory  is  satisfactory  except  that  it  does  not  account 
for  the  absence  of  the  muff.  Ah,  well,  there  must  always  be  a 
mystery  somewhere!  Mystery  is  a  part  .of  enchantment. 

Manual  labor  is  best.  Your  heart  can  sing  and  your  mind  can 
dream  while  your  hands  are  working.  You  could  not  have  a 
singing  heart  and  a  dreaming  mind  all  day  if  you  had  to  scheme 
out  dollars,  or  if  you  had  to  add  columns  of  figures.  Those 
things  take  your  attention.  You  cannot  be  thinking  of  your 
friend  while  you  write  letters  beginning,  "Yours  of  the  i7th 
inst.  rec'd  and  contents  duly  noted."  But  to  work  with  your 
hands  all  day,  thinking  and  singing,  and  then,  after  nightfall, 
to  hear  the  ineffable  kindness  of  your  friend's  greeting — always 
there — for  you!  Who  would  wake  from  such  a  dream  as  this? 

Dawn  and  the  sea — music  in  moonlit  gardens — nightingales 
serenading  through  almond-groves  in  bloom — what  could  bring 
such  things  into  the  city's  turmoil?  Yet  they  are  here,  and 
roses  blossom  in  the  soot.  That  is  what  it  means  not  to  be 
alone!  That  is  what  a  friend  gives  you! 

Having  thus  demonstrated  that  he  was  about 
twenty-five  and  had  formed  a  somewhat  indefinite 
definition  of  friendship,  but  one  entirely  his  own  (and 
perhaps  Mary's)  Bibbs  went  to  bed,  and  was  the 
only  Sheridan  to  sleep  soundly  through  the  night 
and  to  wake  at  dawn  with  a  light  heart. 

His  cheerfulness  was  vaguely  diminished  by  the 

231 


THE   TURMOIL 

troublous  state  of  affairs  in  his  family.  He  had 
recognized  his  condition  when  he  wrote,  "Who 
would  wake  from  such  a  dream  as  this?"  Bibbs 
was  a  sympathetic  person,  easily  touched,  but  he 
was  indeed  living  in  a  dream,  and  all  things  outside 
of  it  were  veiled  and  remote — for  that  is  the  way  of 
youth  in  a  dream.  And  Bibbs,  who  had  never 
before  been  of  any  age,  either  old  or  young,  had 
come  to  his  youth  at  last. 

He  went  whistling  from  the  house  before  even 
his  father  had  come  down-stairs.  There  was  a  fog 
outdoors,  saturated  with  a  fine  powder  of  soot, 
and  though  Bibbs  noticed  absently  the  dim  shape  of 
an  automobile  at  the  curb  before  Roscoe's  house,  he 
did  not  recognize  it  as  Dr.  Gurney's,  but  went 
cheerily  on  his  way  through  the  dingy  mist.  And 
when  he  was  once  more  installed  beside  his  faithful 
zinc -eater  he  whistled  and  sang  to  it,  as  other 
workmen  did  to  their  own  machines  sometimes, 
when  things  went  well.  His  comrades  in  the  shop 
glanced  at  him  amusedly  now  and  then.  They 
liked  him,  and  he  ate  his  lunch  at  noon  with  a 
group  of  Socialists  who  approved  of  his  ideas  and 
talked  of  electing  him  to  their  association. 

The  short  days  of  the  year  had  come,  and  it  was 
dark  before  the  whistles  blew.  When  the  signal  came, 
Bibbs  went  to  the  office,  where  he  divested  himself 
of  his  overalls — his  single  divergence  from  the  rou 
tine  of  his  fellow-workmen — and  after  that  he  used 
soap  and  water  copiously.  This  was  his  transfor 
mation  scene:  he  passed  into  the  office  a  rather 
frail  young  working-man  noticeably  begrimed,  and 
passed  out  of  it  to  the  pavement  a  cheerfully  pre- 
232 


THE   TURMOIL 

occupied  sample  of  gentry,  fastidious  to  the  point 
of  elegance. 

The  sidewalk  was  crowded  with  the  bearers  of 
dinner-pails,  men  and  boys  and  women  and  girls 
from  the  work-rooms  that  closed  at  five.  Many 
hurried  and  some  loitered;  they  went  both  east 
and  west,  jostling  one  another,  and  Bibbs,  turning 
his  face  homeward,  was  forced  to  go  slowly. 

Coming  toward  him,  as  slowly,  through  the  crowd, 
a  tall  girl  caught  sight  of  his  long,  thin  figure  and 
stood  still  until  he  had  almost  passed  her,  for  in 
the  thick  crowd  and  the  thicker  gloom  he  did  not 
recognize  her,  though  his  shoulder  actually  touched 
hers.  He  would  have  gone  by,  but  she  laughed 
delightedly;  and  he  stopped  short,  startled.  Two 
boys,  one  chasing  the  other,  swept  between  them, 
and  Bibbs  stood  still,  peering  about  him  in  deep 
perplexity.  She  leaned  toward  him. 

"I  knew  yo^i!"  she  said. 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Bibbs.  "I  thought  it  was 
your  voice  coming  out  of  a  star!" 

11  There's  only  smoke  overhead,"  said  Mary,  and 
laughed  again.  "There  aren't  any  stars." 

"Oh  yes,  there  were — when  you  laughed!" 

She  took  his  arm,  and  they  went  on.  "I've  come 
to  walk  home  with  you,  Bibbs.  I  wanted  to." 

"But  were  you  here  in  the — " 

"In  the  dark?    Yes!    Waiting?    Yes!" 

Bibbs  was  radiant;  he  felt  suffocated  with  hap 
piness.  He  began  to  scold  her. 

"But  it's  not  safe,  and  I'm  not  worth  it.  You 
shouldn't  have —  You  ought  to  know  better.  What 
did—" 

233 


THE   TURMOIL 

"I  only  waited  about  twelve  seconds,"  she  laughed. 
"I'd  just  got  here." 

"But  to  come  all  this  way  and  to  this  part  of 
town  in  the  dark,  you — " 

"I  was  in  this  part  of  town  already,"  she  said 
"At  least,  I  was  only  seven  or  eight  blocks  away, 
and  it  was  dark  when  I  came  out,  and  I'd  have 
had  to  go  home  alone — and  I  preferred  going  home 
with  you." 

"It's  pretty  beautiful  for  me,"  said  Bibbs,  with 
a  deep  breath.  "You'll  never  know  what  it  was  to 
hear  your  laugh  in  the  darkness — and  then  to — to 
see  you  standing  there !  Oh,  it  was  like — it  was  like — 
How  can  I  tell  you  what  it  was  like?"  They  had 
passed  beyond  the  crowd  now,  and  a  crossing-lamp 
shone  upon  them,  which  revealed  the  fact  that 
again  she  was  without  her  furs.  Here  was  a  puzzle. 
Why  did  that  adorable  little  vanity  of  hers  bring 
her  out  without  them  in  the  dark  ?  But  of  course  she 
had  gone  out  long  before  dark.  For  undefinable 
reasons  this  explanation  was  not  quite  satisfactory; 
however,  allowing  it  to  stand,  his  solicitude  for  her 
took  another  turn.  "I  think  you  ought  to  have 
a  car,"  he  said,  "especially  when  you  want  to  be 
out  after  dark.  You  need  one  in  winter,  anyhow. 
Have  you  ever  asked  your  father  for  one?" 

"No,"  said  Mary.  "I  don't  think  I'd  care  for 
one  particularly." 

"I  wish  you  would."  Bibbs's  tone  was  earnest 
and  troubled.  "I  think  in  winter  you — " 

"No,  no,5'  she  interrupted,  lightly.  "I  don't 
need—" 

"But  my  mother  tried  to  insist  on  sending  one 
234 


THE   TURMOIL 

over  here  every  afternoon  for  me.    I  wouldn't  let 
her,  because  I  like  the  walk,  but  a  girl — " 

"A  girl  likes  to  walk,  too,"  said  Mary.  "Let  me 
tell  you  where  I've  been  this  afternoon  and  how  I 
happened  to  be  near  enough  to  make  you  take  me 
home.  I've  been  to  see  a  little  old  man  who  makes 
pictures  of  the  smoke.  He  has  a  sort  of  warehouse 
for  a  studio,  and  he  lives  there  with  his  mother  and 
his  wife  and  their  seven  children,  and  he's  gloriously 
happy.  I'd  seen  one  of  his  pictures  at  an  exhibition, 
land  I  wanted  to  see  more  of  them,  so  he  showed 
them  to  me.  He  has  almost  everything  he  ever 
[painted;  I  don't  suppose  he's  sold  more  than  four 
or  five  pictures  in  his  life.  He  gives  drawing-lessons 
I  to  keep  alive." 

"How  do  you  mean  he  paints  the  smoke?"  Bibbs 
lasked. 

Literally.     He  paints  from  his  studio  window 
id  from  the  street — anywhere.     He  just  paints 
Chat's  around  him — and  it's  beautiful." 

The  smoke?" 

"Wonderful!  He  sees  the  sky  through  it,  some- 
low.  He  does  the  ugly  roofs  of  cheap  houses 
;hrough  a  haze  of  smoke,  and  he  does  smoky  sunsets 
id  smoky  sunrises,  and  he  has  other  things  with 
;he  heavy,  solid,  slow  columns  of  smoke  going  far 
>ut  and  growing  more  ethereal  and  mixing  with  the 
lazy  light  in  the  distance;  and  he  has  others  with 
;he  broken  sky-line  of  down- town,  all  misted  with 
te  smoke  and  with  puffs  and  jets  of  vapor  that 
ive  colors  like  an  orchard  in  mid -April.  I'm 
[oing  to  take  you  there  some  Sunday  afternoon, 
libbs." 

235 


THE   TURMOIL 

"You're  showing  me  the  town,"  he  said.  "I 
didn't  know  what  was  in  it  at  all." 

"There  are  workers  in  beauty  here,"  she  told 
him,  gently.  "There  are  other  painters  more  pros 
perous  than  my  friend.  There  are  all  sorts  of 
things." 

"I  didn't  know." 

"No.  Since  the  town  began  growing  so  great  that 
it  called  itself  'greater,'  one  could  live  here  all  one's 
life  and  know  only  the  side  of  it  that  shows." 

"The  beauty- workers  seem  buried  very  deep,'* 
said  Bibbs.  "And  I  imagine  that  your  friend  who 
makes  the  smoke  beautiful  must  be  buried  deepest! 
of  all.  My  father  loves  the  smoke,  but  I  can't  im 
agine  his  buying  one  of  your  friend's  pictures.  He'd; 
buy  the  '  Bay  of  Naples,'  but  he  wouldn't  get  one  of 
those.  He'd  think  smoke  in  a  picture  was  horrible — * 
unless  he  could  use  it  for  an  advertisement." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  thoughtfully.  "And  really  he's* 
the  town.  They  are  buried  pretty  deep,  it  seems, 
sometimes,  Bibbs." 

"And  yet  it's  all  wonderful,"  he  said.  "It's  won 
derful  to  me." 

"You  mean  the  town  is  wonderful  to  you?" 

"Yes,  because  everything  is,  since  you  called  me 
your  friend.  The  city  is  only  a  rumble  on  the* 
horizon  for  me.  It  can't  come  any  closer  than  the 
horizon  so  long  as  you  let  me  see  you  standing  by 
my  old  zinc-eater  all  day  long,  helping  me.  Mary — "| 
He  stopped  with  a  gasp.  "That's  the  first  time  I've? 
called  you  'Mary'!" 

"Yes."  She  laughed,  a  little  tremulously. 
"Though  I  wanted  you  to!" 

236 


THE   TURMOIL 

"I  said  it  without  thinking.  It  must  be  because 
you  came  there  to  walk  home  with  me.  That  must 
be  it." 

"Women  like  to  have  things  said,"  Mary  in 
formed  him,  her  tremulous  laughter  continuing. 
"Were  you  glad  I  came  for  you?" 

"No — not  'glad.'  I  felt  as  if  I  were  being  carried 
straight  up  and  up  and  up — over  the  clouds.  I  feel 
like  that  still.  I  think  I'm  that  way  most  of  the 
time.  I  wonder  what  I  was  like  before  I  knew  you. 
The  person  I  was  then  seems  to  have  been  somebody 
else,  not  Bibbs  Sheridan  at  all.  It  seems  long,  long 
ago.  I  was  gloomy  and  sickly— somebody  else — 
somebody  I  don't  understand  now,  a  coward  afraid 
of  shadows  —  afraid  of  things  that  didn't  exist  — 
afraid  of  my  old  zinc-eater!  And  now  I'm  only 
afraid  of  what  might  change  anything." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then,  "You're 
happy,  Bibbs?"  she  asked. 

"Ah,  don't  you  see?"  he  cried.  "I  want  it  to  last 
for  a  thousand,  thousand  years,  just  as  it  is!  You've 
made  me  so  rich,  I'm  a  miser.  I  wouldn't  have  one 
thing  different — nothing,  nothing!" 

"Dear  Bibbs!"  she  said,  and  laughed  happily. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

BIBBS  continued  to  live  in  the  shelter  of  his 
dream.  He  had  told  Edith,  after  his  ineffec 
tive  effort  to  be  useful  in  her  affairs,  that  he  had  de 
cided  that  he  was  "a  member  of  the  family";  but 
he  appeared  to  have  relapsed  to  the  retired  list  after 
that  one  attempt  at  participancy — he  was  far  enough 
detached  from  membership  now.  These  were  tur 
bulent  days  in  the  New  House,  but  Bibbs  had  no  part 
whatever  in  the  turbulence — he  seemed  an  absent- 
minded  stranger,  present  by  accident  and  not  wholly 
awa're  that  he  was  present.  He  would  sit,  faintly 
smiling  over  pleasant  imaginings  and  dear  reminis 
cences  of  his  own,  while  battle  raged  between  Edith 
and  her  father,  or  while  Sheridan  unloosed  jeremiads 
upon  the  sullen  Roscoe,  who  drank  heavily  to  endure 
them.  The  happy  dreamer  wandered  into  storm- 
areas  like  a  somnambulist,  and  wandered  out  again 
unawakened.  He  was  sorry  for  his  father  and  for 
Roscoe,  and  for  Edith  and  for  Sibyl,  but  their  suffer 
ings  and  outcries  seemed  far  away. 

Sibyl  was  under  Gurney's  care.  Roscoe  had  sent 
for  him  on  Sunday  night,  not  long  after  Bibbs  re 
turned  the  abandoned  wraps;  and  during  the  first 
days  of  Sibyl's  illness  the  doctor  found  it  necessary 
to  be  with  her  frequently,  and  to  install  a  muscular 
nurse.  And  whether  he  would  or  no,  Gurney  re- 

238 


THE   TURMOIL 

ceived  from  his  hysterical  patient  a  variety  of  pun 
gent  information  which  would  have  staggered  any 
body  but  a  family  physician.  Among  other  things 
he  was  given  to  comprehend  the  change  in  Bibbs, 
and  why  the  zinc-eater  was  not  putting  a  lump  in 
its  operator's  gizzard  as  of  yore. 

Sibyl  was  not  delirious — she  was  a  thin  little  ego 
writhing  and  shrieking  in  pain.  Life  had  hurt  her, 
and  had  driven  her  into  hurting  herself;  her  con 
dition  was  only  the  adult's  terrible  exaggeration  of 
that  of  a  child  after  a  bad  bruise — there  must  be 
screaming  and  telling  mother  all  about  the  hurt 
and  how  it  happened.  Sibyl  babbled  herself  hoarse 
when  Gurney  withheld  morphine.  She  went  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  in  a  breath.  No  protest 
stopped  her;  nothing  stopped  her. 

"You  ought  to  let  me  die!"  she  wailed.  "It's 
cruel  not  to  let  me  die!  What  harm  have  I  ever 
done  to  anybody  that  you  want  to  keep  me  alive? 
Just  look  at  my  life!  I  only  married  Roscoe  to  get 
away  from  home,  and  look  what  that  got  me  into ! — 
look  where  I  am  now!  He  brought  me  to  this  town, 
and  what  did  I  have  in  my  life  but  his  family?  And 
they  didn't  even  know  the  right  crowd !  If  they  had, 
it  might  have  been  something !  I  had  nothing — 
nothing — nothing  in  the  world!  I  wanted  to  have 
a  good  time — and  how  could  I  ?  Where's  any  good 
time  among  these  Sheridans?  They  never  even  had 
wine  on  the  table!  I  thought  I  was  marrying  into 
a  rich  family  where  I'd  meet  attractive  people  I'd 
read  about,  and  travel,  and  go  to  dances — and,  oh, 
my  Lord!  all  I  got  was  these  Sheridans!  I  did  the 
best  I  could;  I  did,  indeed!  Oh,  I  did!  I  just  tried 
16  239 


THE   TURMOIL 

to  live.  Every  woman's  got  a  right  to  live,  some 
time  in  her  life,  I  guess !  Things  were  just  beginning 
to  look  brighter — we'd  moved  up  here,  and  that 
frozen  crowd  across  the  street  were  after  Jim  for 
their  daughter,  and  they'd  have  started  us  with  the 
right  people — and  then  I  saw  how  Edith  was  get 
ting  him  away  from  me.  She  did  it,  too!  She  got 
him!  A  girl  with  money  can  do  that  to  a  married 
woman — yes,  she  can,  every  time!  And  what  could 
I  do?  What  can  any  woman  do  in  my  fix?  I 
couldn't  do  anything  but  try  to  stand  it — and  I 
couldn't  stand  it!  I  went  to  that  icicle — that 
Vertrees  girl — and  she  could  have  helped  me  a  little, 
and  it  wouldn't  have  hurt  her.  It  wouldn't  have 
done  her  any  harm  to  help  me  that  little !  She  treated 
me  as  if  I'd  been  dirt  that  she  wouldn't  even  take 
the  trouble  to  sweep  out  of  her  house!  Let  her 
wait!"  Sibyl's  voice,  hoarse  from  babbling,  became 
no  more  than  a  husky  whisper,  though  she  strove 
to  make  it  louder.  She  struggled  half  upright,  and 
the  nurse  restrained  her.  "I'd  get  up  out  of  this  bed 
to  show  her  she  can't  do  such  things  to  me!  I  was 
absolutely  ladylike,  and  she  walked  out  and  left  me 
there  alone!  She'll  see!  She  started  after  Bibbs 
before  Jim's  casket  was  fairly  underground,  and  she 
thinks  she's  landed  that  poor  loon — but  she'll  see! 
She'll  see!  If  I'm  ever  able  to  walk  across  the  street 
again  I'll  show  her  how  to  treat  a  woman  in  trouble 
that  comes  to  her  for  help!  It  wouldn't  have  hurt 
her  any  —  it  wouldn't  —  it  wouldn't.  And  Edith 
needn't  have  told  what  she  told  Roscoe — it  wouldn't 
have  hurt  her  to  let  me  alone.  And  he  told  her  I 
bored  him — telephoning  him  I  wanted  to  see  him. 

240 


THE   TURMOIL 

He  needn't  have  done  it!  He  needn't — needn't — " 
Her  voice  grew  fainter,  for  that  while,  with  exhaus 
tion,  though  she  would  go  over  it  all  again  as  soon 
as  her  strength  returned.  She  lay  panting.  Then, 
seeing  her  husband  standing  disheveled  in  the  door 
way,  " Don't  come  in,  Roscoe,"  she  murmured.  "I 
don't  want  to  see  you."  And  as  he  turned  away 
she  added,  "I'm  kind  of  sorry  for  you,  Roscoe." 

Her  antagonist,  Edith,  was  not  more  coherent  in 
her  own  wailings,  and  she  had  the  advantage  of  a 
mother  for  listener.  She  had  also  the  disadvantage 
of  a  mother  for  duenna,  and  Mrs.  Sheridan,  under 
her  husband's  sharp  tutelage,  proved  an  effective  one. 
Edith  was  reduced  to  telephoning  Lamhorn  from 
shops  whenever  she  could  juggle  her  mother  into 
a  momentary  distraction  over  a  counter. 

Edith  was  incomparably  more  in  love  than  be 
fore  Lamhorn's  expulsion.  Her  whole  being  was 
nothing  but  the  determination  to  hurdle  everything 
that  separated  her  from  him.  She  was  in  a  state 
that  could  be  altered  by  only  the  lightest  and  most 
delicate  diplomacy  of  suggestion,  but  Sheridan,  like 
legions  of  other  parents,  intensified  her  passion  and 
fed  it  hourly  fuel  by  opposing  to  it  an  intolerable 
force.  He  swore  she  should  cool,  and  thus  set  her 
on  fire. 

Edith  planned  neatly.  She  fought  hard,  every 
other  evening,  with  her  father,  and  kept  her  bed 
betweentimes  to  let  him  see  what  his  violence  had 
done  to  her.  Then,  when  the  mere  sight  of  her  set 
him  to  breathing  fast,  she  said  pitiably  that  she 
might  bear  her  trouble  better  if  she  went  away;  it 
was  impossible  to  be  in  the  same  town  with  Lam- 

241 


THE   TURMOIL 

horn  and  not  think  always  of  him.  Perhaps  in  New 
York  she  might  forget  a  little.  She  had  written 
to  a  school  friend,  established  quietly  with  an  aunt 
in  apartments — and  a  month  or  so  of  theaters  and 
restaurants  might  bring  peace.  Sheridan  shouted 
with  relief;  he  gave  her  a  copious  cheque,  and  she  left 
upon  a  Monday  morning,  wearing  violets  with  her 
mourning  and  having  kissed  everybody  good-by  ex 
cept  Sibyl  and  Bibbs.  She  might  have  kissed  Bibbs, 
but  he  failed  to  realize  that  the  day  of  her  departure 
had  arrived,  and  was  surprised,  on  returning  from  his 
zinc-eater,  that  evening,  to  find  her  gone.  "I  sup 
pose  they'll  be  married  there,"  he  said,  casually. 

Sheridan,  seated,  warming  his  stockinged  feet  at 
the  fire,  jumped  up,  fuming.  "Either  you  go  out 
o'  here,  or  I  will,  Bibbs!"  he  snorted.  "I  don't 
want  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  the  particular 
kind  of  idiot  you  are!  She's  through  with  that  riff 
raff;  all  she  needed  was  to  be  kept  away  from  him  a 
few  weeks,  and  I  kept  her  away,  and  it  did  the  busi 
ness.  For  Heaven's  sake,  go  on  out  o'  here!" 

Bibbs  obeyed  the  gesture  of  a  hand  still  bandaged. 
And  the  black  silk  sling  was  still  round  Sheridan's 
neck,  but  no  word  of  Gurney's  and  no  excruciating 
twinge  of  pain  could  keep  Sheridan's  hand  in  the 
sling.  The  wounds,  slight  enough  originally,  had 
become  infected  the  first  time  he  had  dislodged  the 
bandages,  and  healing  was  long  delayed.  Sheridan 
had  the  habit  of  gesture;  he  could  not  "take  time 
to  remember,"  he  said,  that  he  must  be  careful,  and 
he  had  also  a  curious  indignation  with  his  hurt; 
he  refused  to  pay  it  the  compliment  of  admitting 
its  existence. 

242 


THE   TURMOIL 

The  Saturday  following  Edith's  departure  Gurney 
came  to  the  Sheridan  Building  to  dress  the  wounds 
and  to  have  a  talk  with  Sheridan  which  the  doctor 
felt  had  become  necessary.  But  he  was  a  little  be 
fore  the  appointed  time  and  was  obliged  to  wait  a 
few  minutes  in  an  anteroom — there  was  a  directors' 
meeting  of  some  sort  in  Sheridan's  office.  The 
door  was  slightly  ajar,  leaking  cigar-smoke  and  ora 
tory,  the  latter  all  Sheridan's,  and  Gurney  listened. 

"No,  sir;  no,  sir;  no,  sir!"  he  heard  the  big  voice 
rumbling,  and  then,  breaking  into  thunder,  "I  tell 
you  NO!  Some  o'  you  men  make  me  sick!  You'd 
lose  your  confidence  in  Almighty  God  if  a  doodle 
bug  flipped  his  hind  leg  at  you!  You  say  money's 
tight  all  over  the  country.  Well,  what  if  it  is? 
There's  no  reason  for  it  to  be  tight,  and  it's  not 
goin'  to  keep  our  money  tight!  You're  always 
runnin'  to  the  woodshed  to  hide  your  nickels  in  a 
crack  because  some  fool  newspaper  says  the  mar 
ket's  a  little  skeery!  You  listen  to  every  street- 
corner  croaker  and  then  come  and  set  here  and  try 
to  scare  me  out  of  a  big  thing!  We're  in  on  this — 
understand  ?  I  tell  you  there  never  was  better  times. 
These  are  good  times  and  big  times,  and  I  won't 
stand  for  any  other  kind  o'  talk.  This  country's 
on  its  feet  as  it  never  was  before,  and  this  city's  on 
its  feet  and  goin'  to  stay  there!"  And  Gurney 
heard  a  series  of  whacks  and  thumps  upon  the  desk. 
'"Bad  times'!"  Sheridan  vociferated,  with  accom 
panying  thumps.  "Rabbit  talk!  These  times  are 
glorious,  I  tell  you!  We're  in  the  promised  land,  and 
we're  goin'  to  stay  there!  That's  all,  gentlemen. 
The  loan  goes!" 

243 


THE   TURMOIL 

The  directors  came  forth,  flushed  and  murmurous, 
and  Gurney  hastened  in.  His  guess  was  correct: 
Sheridan  had  been  thumping  the  desk  with  his  right 
hand.  The  physician  scolded  wearily,  making  good 
the  fresh  damage  as  best  he  might ;  and  then  he  said 
what  he  had  to  say  on  the  subject  of  Roscoe  and 
Sibyl,  his  opinion  meeting,  as  he  expected,  a  warmly 
hostile  reception.  But  the  result  of  this  conversa 
tion  was  that  by  telephonic  command  Roscoe  await 
ed  his  father,  an  hour  later,  in  the  library  at  the 
New  House. 

"Gurney  says  your  wife's  able  to  travel,"  Sheri 
dan  said  brusquely,  as  he  came  in. 

"Yes."  Roscoe  occupied  a  deep  chair  and  sat 
in  the  dejected  attitude  which  had  become  his  habit. 
"Yes,  she  is." 

"Edith  had  to  leave  town,  and  so  Sibyl  thinks 
she'll  have  to,  too!" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  put  it  that  way,"  Roscoe  pro 
tested,  drearily. 

"No,  I  hear  you  wouldn't!"  There  was  a  bitter 
gibe  in  the  father's  voice,  and  he  added:  "It's  a 
good  thing  she's  goin'  abroad — if  she'll  stay  there. 
I  shouldn't  think  any  of  us  want  her  here  any 
more — you  least  of  all!" 

"It's  no  use  your  talking  that  way,"  said  Roscoe. 
"You  won't  do  any  good." 

"Well,  when  you  comin'  back  to  your  office?" 
Sheridan  used  a  brisker,  kinder  tone.  "Three 
weeks  since  you  showed  up  there  at  all.  When  you 
goin'  to  be  ready  to  cut  out  whiskey  and  all  the  rest 
o'  the  foolishness  and  start  in  again?  You  ought 
to  be  able  to  make  up  for  a  lot  o'  lost  time  and  a 

244 


THE   TURMOIL 

v 

lot  o'  spilt  milk  when  that  woman  takes  herself  out 
o'  the  way  and  lets  you  and  all  the  rest  of  us 
alone." 

"It's  no  use,  father,  I  tell  you.  I  know  what 
Gurney  was  going  to  say  to  you.  I'm  not  going 
back  to  the  office.  I'm  done!'1 

"Wait  a  minute  before  you  talk  that  way!" 
Sheridan  began  his  sentry-go  up  and  down  the  room. 
"I  suppose  you  know  it's  taken  two  pretty  good 
men  about  sixteen  hours  a  day  to  set  things  straight 
and  get  'em  runnin'  right  again,  down  in  your  office?" 

"They  must  be  good  men."  Roscoe  nodded  in 
differently.  "I  thought  I  was  doing  about  eight 
men's  work.  I'm  glad  you  found  two  that  could 
handle  it." 

"Look  here!  If  I  worked  you  it  was  for  your 
own  good.  There  are  plenty  men  drive  harder  'n  I 
do,  and — " 

"Yes.  There  are  some  that  break  down  all  the 
other  men  that  work  with  'em.  They  either  die, 
or  go  crazy,  or  have  to  quit,  and  are  no  use  the 
rest  of  their  lives.  The  last's  my  case,  I  guess — 
'complicated  by  domestic  difficulties'!" 

"You  set  there  and  tell  me  you  give  up?"  Sheri 
dan's  voice  shook,  and  so  did  the  gesticulating  hand 
which  he  extended  appealingly  toward  the  despond 
ent  figure.  "Don't  do  it,  Roscoe!  Don't  say  it! 
Say  you'll  come  down  there  again  and  be  a  man! 
This  woman  ain't  goin'  to  trouble  you  any  more. 
The  work  ain't  goin'  to  hurt  you  if  you  haven't 
got  her  to  worry  you,  and  you  can  get  shut  o'  this 
nasty  whiskey -guzzlin';  it  ain't  fastened  on  you 
yet.  Don't  say— •" 

245 


THE   TURMOIL 

"It's  no  use  on  earth,"  Roscoe  mumbled.  "No 
use  on  earth.*' 

"Look  here!  If  you  want  another  month's  vaca 
tion—" 

"I  know  Gurney  told  you,  so  what's  the  use 
talking  about  'vacations'?" 

"Gurney!"  Sheridan  vociferated  the  name  sav 
agely.  "It's  Gurney,  Gurney,  Gurney!  Always 
Gurney!  I  don't  know  what  the  world's  comin'  to 
with  everybody  runnin'  around  squealin',  'The  doc 
tor  says  this,'  and,  'The  doctor  says  that'!  It 
makes  me  sick!  How's  this  country  expect  to  get 
its  Work  done  if  Gurney  and  all  the  other  old 
nanny-goats  keep  up  this  blattin' — 'Oh,  oh!  Don't 
lift  that  stick  o'  wood;  you'll  ruin  your  nerves!'  So 
he  says  you  got  'nervous  exhaustion  induced  by 
overwork  and  emotional  strain.'  They  always  got 
to  stick  the  Work  in  if  they  see  a  chance !  I  reckon 
you  did  have  the  'emotional  strain,'  and  that's  all's 
the  matter  with  you.  You'll  be  over  it  soon's  this 
woman's  gone,  and  Work's  the  very  thing  to  make 
you  quit  frettin'  about  her." 

"Did  Gurney  tell  you  I  was  fit  to  work?" 

"Shut  up!"  Sheridan  bellowed.  "I'm  so  sick  o' 
that  man's  name  I  feel  like  shootin'  anybody  that 
says  it  to  me!"  He  fumed  and  chafed,  swear 
ing  indistinctly,  then  came  and  stood  before  his 
son.  "Look  here;  do  you  think  you're  doin'  the 
square  thing  by  me?  Do  you?  How  much  you 
worth?" 

"I've  got  between  seven  and  eight  thousand  a 
year  clear,  of  my  own,  outside  the  salary.  That 
much  is  mine  whether  I  work  or  not." 

246 


THE   TURMOIL 

"It  is?  You  could  'a'  pulled  it  out  without  me, 
I  suppose  you  think,  at  your  age?" 
"No.  But  it's  mine,  and  it's  enough." 
"My  Lord!  It's  about  what  a  Congressman  gets, 
and  you  want  to  quit  there!  I  suppose  you  think 
you'll  get  the  rest  when  I  kick  the  bucket,  and  all 
you  have  to  do  is  lay  back  and  wait!  You  let  me 
tell  you  right  here,  you'll  never  see  one  cent  of  it. 
You  go  out  o'  business  now,  and  what  would  you 
know  about  handlin'  it  five  or  ten  or  twenty  years 
from  now?  Because  I  intend  to  stay  here  a  little 
while  yet,  my  boy !  They'd  either  get  it  away  from 
you  or  you'd  sell  for  a  nickel  and  let  it  be  split  up 
and — "  He  whirled  about,  marched  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  and  stood  silent  a  moment.  Then  he 
said,  solemnly:  "Listen.  If  you  go  out  now,  you 
leave  me  in  the  lurch,  with  no  thin'  on  God's  green 
earth  to  depend  on  but  your  brother — and  you  know 
what  he  is.  I've  depended  on  you  for  it  all  since 
Jim  died.  Now  you've  listened  to  that  dam'  doctor, 
and  he  says  maybe  you  won't  ever  be  as  good  a  man 
as  you  were,  and  that  certainly  you  won't  be  for  a 
year  or  so — probably  more.  Now,  that's  all  a  lie. 
Men  don't  break  down  that  way  at  your  age.  Look 
at  me!  And  I  tell  you,  you  can  shake  this  thing  off. 
All  you  need  is  a  little  get-up  and  a  little  gumption. 
Men  don't  go  away  for  years  and  then  come  back 
into  moving  businesses  like  ours  —  they  lose  the 
strings.  And  if  you  could,  I  won't  let  you — if  you 
lay  down  on  me  now,  I  won't  —  and  that's  be 
cause  if  you  lay  down  you  prove  you  ain't  the 
man  I  thought  you  were."  He  cleared  his  throat 
and  finished  quietly:  "  Roscoe,  will  you  take  a 

247 


THE   TURMOIL 

month's    vacation    and    come    back    and   go    to 
it?" 

"No,"  said  Roscoe,  listlessly.  "I'm  through." 
"All  right,"  said  Sheridan.  He  picked  up  the 
evening  paper  from  a  table,  went  to  a  chair  by  the 
fire  and  sat  down,  his  back  to  his  son.  "Good-by." 
Roscoe  rose,  his  head  hanging,  but  there  was  a 
dull  relief  in  his  eyes.  ' '  Best  I  can  do, ' '  he  muttered, 
seeming  about  to  depart,  yet  lingering.  "I  figure  it 
out  a  good  deal  like  this,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know 
my  job  was  any  strain,  and  I  managed  all  right,  but 
from  what  Gur — from  what  I  hear,  I  was  just  up  to 
the  limit  of  my  nerves  from  overwork,  and  the — the 
trouble  at  home  was  the  extra  strain  that's  fixed  me 
the  way  I  am.  I  tried  to  brace,  so  I  could  stand  the 
work  and  the  trouble  too,  on  whiskey — and  that  put 
the  finish  to  me!  I — I'm  not  hitting  it  as  hard  as  I 
was  for  a  while,  and  I  reckon  pretty  soon,  if  I  can 
get  to  feeling  a  little  more  energy,  I  better  try  to 
quit  entirely — I  don't  know.  I'm  all  in — and  the 
doctor  says  so.  I  thought  I  was  running  along  fine 
up  to  a  few  months  ago,  but  all  the  time  I  was  ready 
to  bust,  and  didn't  know  it.  Now,  then,  I  don't 
want  you  to  blame  Sibyl,  and  if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't 
speak  of  her  as  'that  woman,'  because  she's  your 
daughter-in-law  and  going  to  stay  that  way.  She 
didn't  do  anything  wicked.  It  was  a  shock  to  me, 
and  I  don't  deny  it,  to  find  what  she  had  done — 
encouraging  that  fellow  to  hang  around  her  after 
he  began  trying  to  flirt  with  her,  and  losing  her  head 
over  him  the  way  she  did.  I  don't  deny  it  was  a 
shock  and  that  it  '11  always  be  a  hurt  inside  of  me 
I'll  never  get  over.  But  it  was  my  fault;  I  didn't 

248 


THE   TURMOIL 

understand  a  woman's  nature."  Poor  Roscoe  spoke 
in  the  most  profound  and  desolate  earnest.  "A 
woman  craves  society,  and  gaiety,  and  meeting  at 
tractive  people,  and  traveling.  Well,  I  can't  give 
her  the  other  things,  but  I  can  give  her  the  traveling 
— real  traveling,  not  just  going  to  Atlantic  City  or 
New  Orleans,  the  way  she  has,  two,  three  times.  A 
woman  has  to  have  something  in  her  life  besides  a 
business  man.  And  that's  all  I  was.  I  never  under 
stood  till  I  heard  her  talking  when  she  was  so  sick, 
and  I  believe  if  you'd  heard  her  then  you  wouldn't 
speak  so  hard-heartedly  about  her;  I  believe  you 
might  have  forgiven  her  like  I  have.  That's  all. 
I  never  cared  anything  for  any  girl  but  her  in  my 
life,  but  I  was  so  busy  with  business  I  put  it  ahead 
of  her.  I  never  thought  about  her,  I  was  so  busy 
thinking  business.  Well,  this  is  where  it's  brought 
us  to — and  now  when  you  talk  about  'business'  to 
me  I  feel  the  way  you  do  when  anybody  talks  about 
Gurney  to  you.  The  word  'business'  makes  me 
dizzy — it  makes  me  honestly  sick  at  the  stomach. 
I  believe  if  I  had  to  go  down-town  and  step  inside 
that  office  door  I'd  fall  down  on  the  floor,  deathly 
sick.  You  talk  about  a  'month's  vacation' — and 
I  get  just  as  sick.  I'm  rattled — I  can't  plan — I 
haven't  got  any  plans — can't  make  any,  except  to 
take  my  girl  and  get  just  as  far  away  from  that  office 
as  I  can — and  stay.  We're  going  to  Japan  first, 
and  if  we — " 

His  father  rustled  the  paper.  "I  said  good-by, 
Roscoe." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Roscoe,  listlessly. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

OHERIDAN  waited  until  he  heard  the  sound  of 
^  the  outer  door  closing;  then  he  rose  and  pushed 
a  tiny  disk  set  in  the  wall.  Jackson  appeared. 

"Has  Bibbs  got  home  from  work?" 

"Mist'  Bibbs?    No,  suh." 

"Tell  him  I  want  to  see  him,  soon  as  he  comes." 

"Yessuh." 

Sheridan  returned  to  his  chair  and  fixed  his  at 
tention  fiercely  upon  the  newspaper.  He  found  it 
difficult  to  pursue  the  items  beyond  their  explanatory 
rubrics — there  was  nothing  unusual  or  startling  to 
concentrate  his  attention: 

"Motorman  Puts  Blame  on  Brakes.  Three  Kill 
ed  when  Car  Slides."  "Burglars  Make  Big  Haul." 
"Board  Works  Approve  Big  Car -line  Extension." 
"Hold-up  Men  Injure  Two.  Man  Found  in  Alley, 
Skull  Fractured."  "Sickening  Story  Told  in  Di 
vorce  Court."  "Plan  New  Eighteen-story  Structure." 
"School  -  girl  Meets  Death  under  Automobile." 
"Negro  Cuts  Three.  One  Dead."  "Life  Crushed 
Out.  Third  Elevator  Accident  in  Same  Building 
Causes  Action  by  Coroner."  "Declare  Militia  will 
be  Menace.  Polish  Societies  Protest  to  Governor 
in  Church  Rioting  Case."  "Short  $3,500  in  Ac 
counts,  Trusted  Man  Kills  Self  with  Drug."  "Found 
Frozen.  Family  Without  Food  or  Fuel.  Baby 

250 


THE   TURMOIL 

Dead  when  Parents  Return  Home  from  Seeking 
Work."  "Minister  Returned  from  Trip  Abroad 
Lectures  on  Big  Future  of  Our  City.  Sees  Big  Im 
provement  during  Short  Absence.  Says  No  Euro 
pean  City  Holds  Candle."  (Sheridan  nodded  ap 
provingly  here.) 

Bibbs  came  through  the  hall  whistling,  and  en 
tered  the  room  briskly.  "Well,  father,  did  you 
want  me?" 

"Yes.  Sit  down."  Sheridan  got  up,  and  Bibbs 
took  a  seat  by  the  fire,  holding  out  his  hands  to  the 
crackling  blaze,  for  it  was  cold  outdoors. 

"I  came  within  seven  of  the  shop  record  to-day," 
he  said.  "I  handled  more  strips  than  any  other 
workman  has  any  day  this  month.  The  nearest  to 
me  is  sixteen  behind." 

"There!"  exclaimed  his  father,  greatly  pleased. 
"What  'd  I  tell  you?  I'd  like  to  hear  Gurney  hint 
again  that  I  wasn't  right  in  sending  you  there — I 
would  just  like  to  hear  him!  And  you — ain't  you 
ashamed  of  makin'  such  a  fuss  about  it?  Ain't 
you?" 

"I  didn't  go  at  it  in  the  right  spirit  the  other 
time,"  Bibbs  said,  smiling  brightly,  his  face  ruddy 
in  the  cheerful  firelight.  "I  didn't  know  the  differ 
ence  it  meant  to  like  a  thing." 

"Well,  I  guess  I've  pretty  thoroughly  vindicated 
my  judgment.  I  guess  I  have!  I  said  the  shop  'd 
be  good  for  you,  and  it  was.  I  said  it  wouldn't  hurt 
you,  and  it  hasn't.  It's  been  just  exactly  what  I 
said  it  would  be.  Ain't  that  so?" 

"Looks  like  it!"  Bibbs  agreed,  gaily. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  know  any  place  I  been  wrong, 

251 


THE   TURMOIL 

first  and  last!  Instead  o'  hurtin*  you,  it's  been 
the  makin'  of  you — physically.  You're  a  good  inch 
taller'n  what  I  am,  and  you'd  be  a  bigger  man  than 
what  I  am  if  you'd  get  some  flesh  on  your  bones; 
and  you  are  gettin*  a  little.  Physically,  it's  started 
you  out  to  be  the  huskiest  one  o'  the  whole  family. 
Now,  then,  mentally — that's  different.  I  don't  say 
it  unkindly,  Bibbs,  but  you  got  to  do  something  for 
yourself  mentally,  just  like  what's  begun  physically. 
And  I'm  goin'  to  help  you." 

Sheridan  decided  to  sit  down  again.  He  brought 
his  chair  close  to  his  son's,  and,  leaning  over,  tapped 
Bibbs's  knee  confidentially.  "I  got  plans  for  you, 
Bibbs,"  he  said. 

Bibbs  instantly  looked  thoroughly  alarmed.  He 
drew  back.  "I — I'm  all  right  now,  father." 

"Listen."  Sheridan  settled  himself  in  his  chair, 
and  spoke  in  the  tone  of  a  reasonable  man  reasoning. 
"Listen  here,  Bibbs.  I  had  another  blow  to-day, 
and  it  was  a  hard  one  and  right  in  the  face,  though 
I  have  been  expectin'  it  some  little  time  back.  Well, 
it's  got  to  be  met.  Now  I'll  be  frank  with  you.  As 
I  said  a  minute  ago,  mentally  I  couldn't  ever  called 
you  exactly  strong.  You  been  a  little  weak  both 
ways,  most  of  your  life.  Not  but  what  I  think 
you  got  a  mentality,  if  you'd  learn  to  use  it.  You 
got  will-power,  I'll  say  that  for  you.  I  never  knew 
boy  or  man  that  could  be  stubborner — never  one 
in  my  life!  Now,  then,  you've  showed  you  could 
learn  to  run  that  machine  best  of  any  man  in  the 
shop,  in  no  time  at  all.  That  looks  to  me  like  you 
could  learn  to  do  other  things.  I  don't  deny  but 
what  it's  an  encouragin'  sign.  I  don't  deny  that,  at 

252 


THE   TURMOIL 

all.  Well,  that  helps  me  to  think  the  case  ain't  so 
hopeless  as  it  looks.  You're  all  I  got  to  meet  this 
blow  with,  but  maybe  you  ain't  as  poor  material 
as  I  thought.  Your  tellin'  me  about  comin'  within 
seven  strips  of  the  shop's  record  to-day  looks  to 
me  like  encouragin'  information  brought  in  at  just 
about  the  right  time.  Now,  then,  I'm  goin'  to  give 
you  a  raise.  I  wanted  to  send  you  straight  on  up 
through  the  shops — a  year  or  two,  maybe — but  I 
can't  do  it.  I  lost  Jim,  and  now  I've  lost  Roscoe. 
He's  quit.  He's  laid  down  on  me.  If  he  ever  comes 
back  at  all,  he'll  be  a  long  time  pickin'  up  the  strings, 
and,  anyway,  he  ain't  the  man  I  thought  he  was. 
I  can't  count  on  him.  I  got  to  have  somebody  I 
know  I  can  count  on.  And  I'm  down  to  this:  you're 
my  last  chance.  Bibbs,  I  got  to  learn  you  to  use 
what  brains  you  got  and  see  if  we  can't  develop  'ern 
a  little.  Who  knows?  And  I'm  goin'  to  put  my 
time  in  on  it.  I'm  goin'  to  take  you  right  down 
town  with  me,  and  I  won't  be  hard  on  you  if  you're 
a  little  slow  at  first.  And  I'm  goin'  to  do  the  big 
thing  for  you.  I'm  goin'  to  make  you  feel  you  got 
to  do  the  big  thing  for  me,  in  return.  I've  vindi 
cated  my  policy  with  you  about  the  shop,  and  now 
I'm  goin'  to  turn  right  around  and  swing  you  'way 
over  ahead  of  where  the  other  boys  started,  and 
I'm  goin'  to  make  an  appeal  to  your  ambition 
that  '11  make  you  dizzy!"  He  tapped  his  son  on  the 
knee  again.  " Bibbs,  I'm  goin'  to  start  you  off  this 
way:  I'm  goin'  to  make  you  a  director  in  the  Pump 
Works  Company;  I'm  goin'  to  make  you  vice- 
president  of  the  Realty  Company  and  a  vice- 
president  of  the  Trust  Company!" 

253 


THE   TURMOIL 

Bibbs  jumped  to  his  feet,  blanched.  "Oh  no!" 
he  cried. 

Sheridan  took  his  dismay  to  be  the  excitement  of 
sudden  joy.  "Yes,  sir!  And  there's  some  pretty 
fat  little  salaries  goes  with  those  vice-presidencies, 
and  a  pinch  o'  stock  in  the  Pump  Company  with 
the  directorship.  You  thought  I  was  pretty  mean 
about  the  shop — oh,  I  know  you  did! — but  you  see 
the  old  man  can  play  it  both  ways.  And  so  right 
now,  the  minute  you've  begun  to  make  good  the 
way  I  wanted  you  to,  I  deal  from  the  new  deck. 
And  I'll  keep  on  handin'  it  out  bigger  and  bigger 
every  time  you  show  me  you're  big  enough  to  play 
the  hand  I  deal  you.  I'm  startin'  you  with  a  pretty 
big  one,  my  boy!" 

"But  I  don't—I  don't— I  don't  want  it!"  Bibbs 
stammered. 

"What  'd  you  say?"  Sheridan  thought  he  had 
not  heard  aright. 

"I  don't  want  it,  father.  I  thank  you — I  do 
thank  you — " 

Sheridan  looked  perplexed.  "What's  the  matter 
with  you?  Didn't  you  understand  what  I  was 
tellin'  you?" 

"Yes." 

"You  sure?    I  reckon  you  didn't.    I  offered — " 

"I  know,  I  know!    But  I  can't  take  it." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  Sheridan  was 
half  amazed,  half  suspicious.  "Your  head  feel 
funny?" 

"I've  never  been  quite  so  sane  in  my  life,"  said 
Bibbs,  "as  I  have  lately.  And  I've  got  just  what 
I  want.  I'm  living  exactly  the  right  life.  I'm 

254 


THE   TURMOIL 

earning  my  daily  bread,  and  I'm  happy  in  doing  it. 
My  wages  are  enough.  I  don't  want  any  more 
money,  and  I  don't  deserve  any — " 

' 'Damnation!"  Sheridan  sprang  up.  " You've 
turned  Socialist!  You  been  listening  to  those  fel 
lows  down  there,  and  you — " 

"No,  sir.  I  think  there's  a  great  deal  in  what 
they  say,  but  that  isn't  it." 

Sheridan  tried  to  restrain  his  growing  fury,  and 
succeeded  partially.  "Then  what  is  it?  What's  the 
matter?" 

"Nothing,"  his  son  returned,  nervously.  "Noth 
ing —  except  that  I'm  content.  I  don't  want  to 
change  anything." 

"Why  not?" 

Bibbs  had  the  incredible  folly  to  try  to  explain. 
"Ill  tell  you,  father,  if  I  can.  I  know  it  may  be 
hard  to  understand — " 

"Yes,  I  think  it  may  be,"  said  Sheridan,  grimly. 
"What  you  say  usually  is  a  little  that  way.  Go  on!" 

Perturbed  and  distressed,  Bibbs  rose  instinctively; 
he  felt  himself  at  every  possible  disadvantage.  He 
was  a  sleeper  clinging  to  a  dream — a  rough  hand 
stretched  to  shake  him  and  waken  him.  He  went 
to  a  table  and  made  vague  drawings  upon  it  with  a 
finger,  and  as  he  spoke  he  kept  his  eyes  lowered. 
"You  weren't  altogether  right  about  the  shop — 
that  is,  in  one  way  you  weren't,  father."  He  glanced 
up  apprehensively.  Sheridan  stood  facing  him, 
expressionless,  and  made  no  attempt  to  interrupt. 
"That's  difficult  to  explain,"  Bibbs  continued,  lower 
ing  his  eyes  again,  to  follow  the  tracings  of  his  fin 
ger.  "I — I  believe  the  shop  might  have  done  for 
'7  255 


THE   TURMOIL 

me  this  time  if  I  hadn't — if  something  hadn't  helped 
me  to — oh,  not  only  to  bear  it,  but  to  be  happy 
in  it.  Well,  I  am  happy  in  it.  I  want  to  go  on  just 
as  I  am.  And  of  all  things  on  earth  that  I  don't 
want,  I  don't  want  to  live  a  business  life — I  don't 
want  to  be  drawn  into  it.  I  don't  think  it  is  living — 
and  now  I  am  living.  I  have  the  healthful  toil — 
and  I  can  think.  In  business  as  important  as  yours 
I  couldn't  think  anything  but  business.  I  don't — 
I  don't  think  making  money  is  worth  while." 

"Go  on,"  said  Sheridan,  curtly,  as  Bibbs  paused 
timidly. 

"It  hasn't  seemed  to  get  anywhere,  that  I  can 
see,"  said  Bibbs.  "You  think  this  city  is  rich  and 
powerful — but  what's  the  use  of  its  being  rich  and 
powerful?  They  don't  teach  the  children  any  more 
in  the  schools  because  the  city  is  rich  and  powerful. 
They  teach  them  more  than  they  used  to  because 
some  people — not  rich  and  powerful  people — have 
thought  the  thoughts  to  teach  the  children.  And 
yet  when  you've  been  reading  the  paper  I've  heard 
you  objecting  to  the  children  being  taught  anything 
except  what  would  help  them  to  make  money. 
You  said  it  was  wasting  the  taxes.  You  want  them 
taught  to  make  a  living,  but  not  to  live.  When  I 
was  a  little  boy  this  wasn't  an  ugly  town;  now  it's 
hideous.  What's  the  use  of  being  big  just  to  be 
hideous?  I  mean  I  don't  think  all  this  has  meant 
really  going  ahead — it's  just  been  getting  bigger 
and  dirtier  and  noisier.  Wasn't  the  whole  country 
happier  and  in  many  ways  wiser  when  it  was  smaller 
and  cleaner  and  quieter  and  kinder?  I  know  you 
think  I'm  an  utter  fool,  father,  but,  after  all,  though, 

256 


THE  TURMOIL 

aren't  business  and  politics  just  the  housekeeping 
part  of  life?  And  wouldn't  you  despise  a  woman 
that  not  only  made  her  housekeeping  her  ambition, 
but  did  it  so  noisily  and  dirtily  that  the  whole 
neighborhood  was  in  a  continual  turmoil  over  it? 
And  suppose  she  talked  and  thought  about  her  house 
keeping  all  the  time,  and  was  always  having  addi 
tions  built  to  her  house  when  she  couldn't  keep 
clean  what  she  already  had;  and  suppose,  with  it  all, 
she  made  the  house  altogether  unpeaceful  and  un- 
livable— " 

"Just  one  minute !"  Sheridan  interrupted,  add 
ing,  with  terrible  courtesy,  "If  you  will  permit  me? 
Have  you  ever  been  right  about  anything?" 

"I  don't  quite—" 

"I  ask  the  simple  question:  Have  you  ever  been 
right  about  anything  whatever  in  the  course  of  your 
life?  Have  you  ever  been  right  upon  any  subject 
or  question  you've  thought  about  and  talked  about? 
Can  you  mention  one  single  time  when  you  were 
proved  to  be  right?" 

He  was  flourishing  the  bandaged  hand  as  he 
spoke,  but  Bibbs  said  only,  "If  I've  always  been 
wrong  before,  surely  there's  more  chance  that  I'm 
right  about  this.  It  seems  reasonable  to  suppose 
something  would  be  due  to  bring  up  my  average." 

"Yes,  I  thought  you  wouldn't  see  the  point.  And 
there's  another  you  probably  couldn't  see,  but  I'll 
take  the  liberty  to  mention  it.  You  been  balkin'  all 
your  life.  Pretty  much  everything  I  ever  wanted 
you  to  do,  you'd  let  out  some  kind  of  a  holler,  like 
you  are  now — and  yet  I  can't  seem  to  remember 
once  when  you  didn't  have  to  lay  down  and  do  what 

257 


THE   TURMOIL 

I  said.     But  go  on  with  your  remarks  about  our 
city  and  the  business  of  this  country.     Go  on!" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  part  of  it,"  said  Bibbs,  with 
unwonted  decision.  "I  want  to  keep  to  myself, 
and  I'm  doing  it  now.  I  couldn't,  if  I  went  down 
there  with  you.  I'd  be  swallowed  into  it.  I  don't 
care  for  money  enough  to — " 

"No,"  his  father  interrupted,  still  dangerously 
quiet.  "You've  never  had  to  earn  a  living.  Any 
body  could  tell  that  by  what  you  say.  Now,  let  me 
remind  you:  you're  sleepin'  in  a  pretty  good  bed; 
you're  eatin'  pretty  fair  food;  you're  wearin'  pretty 
fine  clothes.  Just  suppose  one  o'  these  noisy  house 
keepers — me,  for  instance — decided  to  let  you  do 
your  own  housekeepin'.  May  I  ask  what  your 
proposition  would  be?" 

"I'm  earning  nine  dollars  a  week,"  said  Bibbs, 
sturdily.  "It's  enough.  I  shouldn't  mind  at 
all." 

"Who's  payin*  you  that  nine  dollars  a  week?" 

"My  work!"  Bibbs  answered.  "And  I've  done 
so  well  on  that  clipping-machine  I  believe  I  could 
work  up  to  fifteen  or  even  twenty  a  week  at  another 
job.  I  could  be  a  fair  plumber  in  a  few  months, 
I'm  sure,  I'd  rather  have  a  trade  than  be  in  busi 
ness — I  should,  infinitely!" 

"You  better  set  about  learnin'  one  pretty  dam* 
quick!"  But  Sheridan  struggled  with  his  temper 
and  again  was  partially  successful  in  controlling  it. 
"You  better  learn  a  trade  over  Sunday,  because 
you're  either  goin'  down  with  me  to  my  office 
Monday  morning  —  or  —  you  can  go  to  plumb 
ing!" 

258 


THE   TURMOIL 

"All  right,"  said  Bibbs,  gently.  "I  can  get  along." 
Sheridan  raised  his  hands  sardonically,  as  in 
prayer.  "O  God,"  he  said,  "this  boy  was  crazy 
enough  before  he  began  to  earn  nine  dollars  a  week, 
and  now  his  money's  gone  to  his  head!  Can't  You 
do  nothin'  for  him?"  Then  he  flung  his  hands  apart, 
palms  outward,  in  a  furious  gesture  of  dismissal. 
"Get  out  o'  this  room!  You  got  a  skull  that's 
thicker 'n  a  whale's  thigh-bone,  but  it's  cracked 
spang  all  the  way  across!  You  hated  the  machine- 
shop  so  bad  when  I  sent  you  there,  you  went  and 
stayed  sick  for  over  two  years — -and  now,  when  I 
offer  to  take  you  out  of  it  and  give  you  the  mint,  you 
holler  for  the  shop  like  a  calf  for  its  mammy !  You're 
cracked !  Oh,  but  I  got  a  fine  layout  here !  One  son 
died,  one  quit,  and  one's  a  loon!  The  loon's  all  I 
got  left!  H.  P.  Ellersly's  wife  had  a  crazy  brother, 
and  they  undertook  to  keep  him  at  the  house.  First 
morning  he  was  there  he  walked  straight  through 
a  ten-dollar  plate-glass  window  out  into  the  yard. 
He  says,  'Oh,  look  at  the  pretty  dandelion!'  That's 
what  you're  doin'!  You  want  to  spend  your  life 
sayin',  'Oh,  look  at  the  pretty  dandelion!'  and  you 
don't  care  a  tinker's  dam'  what  you  bust!  Well, 
mister,  loon  or  no  loon,  cracked  and  crazy  or  what 
ever  you  are,  I'll  take  you  with  me  Monday  morning, 
and  I'll  work  you  and  learn  you — yes,  and  I'll  lam 
you,  if  I  got  to — until  I've  made  something  out  of 
you  that's  fit  to  be  called  a  business  man!  I'll  keep 
at  you  while  I'm  able  to  stand,  and  if  I  have  to  lay 
down  to  die  I'll  be  whisperin'  at  you  till  they  get 
the  embalmin '-fluid  into  me!  Now  go  on,  and  don't 
let  me  hear  from  you  again  till  you  can  come  and 

*  259 


THE   TURMOIL 

tell  me  you've  waked  up,  you  poor,  pitiful,  dande- 
lion-pickin'  sleep-walker!" 

Bibbs  gave  him  a  queer  look.  There  was  some 
thing  like  reproach  in  it,  for  once;  but  there  was 
more  than  that — he  seemed  to  be  startled  by  his 
father's  last  word. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HTHERE  was  sleet  that  evening,  with  a  whooping 
A  wind,  but  neither  this  storm  nor  that  other 
which  so  imminently  threatened  him  held  place  in 
the  consciousness  of  Bibbs  Sheridan  when  he  came 
once  more  to  the  presence  of  Mary.  All  was  right 
in  his  world  as  he  sat  with  her,  reading  Maurice 
Maeterlinck's  Alladine  and  Palomides.  The  sorrow 
ful  light  of  the  gas-jet  might  have  been  May  morn 
ing  sunshine  flashing  amber  and  rose  through  the 
glowing  windows  of  the  Sainte-Chapelle,  it  was  so 
bright  for  Bibbs.  And  while  the  zinc-eater  held  out 
to  bring  him  such  golden  nights  as  these,  all  the 
king's  horses  and  all  the  king's  men  might  not  serve 
to  break  the  spell. 

Bibbs  read  slowly,  but  in  a  reasonable  manner,  as 
if  he  were  talking;  and  Mary,  looking  at  him  stead 
ily  from  beneath  her  curved  fingers,  appeared  to  dis 
cover  no  fault.  It  had  grown  to  be  her  habit  to  look 
at  him  whenever  there  was  an  opportunity.  It  may 
be  said,  in  truth,  that  while  they  were  together,  and 
it  was  light,  she  looked  at  him  all  the  time. 

When  he  came  to  the  end  of  Alladine  and  Pal 
omides  they  were  silent  a  little  while,  considering 
together;  then  he  turned  back  the  pages  and  said: 

"There's  something  I  want  to  read  over.  This: 

261 


THE   TURMOIL 

You  would  think  I  threw  a  window  open  on  the  dawn.  .  .  . 
She  has  a  soul  that  can  be  seen  around  her — that  takes  you  in 
its  arms  like  an  ailing  child  and  without  saying  anything  to 
you  consoles  you  for  everything.  ...  I  shall  never  understand 
it  all.  I  do  not  know  how  it  can  all  be,  but  my  knees  bend  in 
spite  of  me  when  I  speak  of  it.  ... 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her. 

"You  boy!"  said  Mary,  not  very  clearly. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  returned.  "But  it's  true— especial 
ly  my  knees!" 

"You  boy!"  she  murmured  again,  blushing  charm 
ingly.  "You  might  read  another  line  over.  The 
first  time  I  ever  saw  you,  Bibbs,  you  were  looking 
into  a  mirror.  Do  it  again.  But  you  needn't 
read  it — I  can  give  it  to  you:  'A  little  Greek  slave 
that  came  from  the  heart  of  ArcadyF" 

"//  I'm  one  of  the  hands  at  the  Pump  Works — 
and  going  to  stay  one,  unless  I  have  to  decide  to 
study  plumbing." 

"No."  She  shook  her  head.  "You  love  and 
want  what's  beautiful  and  delicate  and  serene;  it's 
really  art  that  you  want  in  your  life,  and  have  always 
wanted.  You  seemed  to  me,  from  the  first,  the  most 
wistful  person  I  had  ever  known,  and  that's  what 
you  were  wistful  for." 

Bibbs  looked  doubtful  and  more  wistful  than  ever; 
but  after  a  moment  or  two  the  matter  seemed  to 
clarify  itself  to  him.  ' '  Why,  no, ' '  he  said ;  "  I  wanted 
something  else  more  than  that.  I  wanted  you." 

"And  here  I  am!"  she  laughed,  completely  under 
standing.  "I  think  we're  like  those  two  in  The 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth.  I'm  just  the  rough  Bur- 
gundian  cross-bow  man,  Denys,  who  followed  that 

262 


THE   TURMOIL 

gentle  Gerard  and  told  everybody  that  the  devil  was 
dead." 

"He  isn't,  though,"  said  Bibbs,  as  a  hoarse  little 
bell  in  the  next  room  began  a  series  of  snappings 
which  proved  to  be  ten,  upon  count.  "He  gets  into 
the  clock  whenever  I'm  with  you."  And,  sighing 
deeply,  he  rose  to  go. 

"You're  always  very  prompt  about  leaving  me." 

"I— I  try  to  be,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  easy  to  be 
careful  not  to  risk  everything  by  giving  myself  a 
little  more  at  a  time.  If  I  ever  saw  you  look  tired — " 

"Have  you  ever?" 

' '  Not  yet.    You  always  look — you  always  look — " 

"How?" 

"Care-free.  That's  it.  Except  when  you  feel 
sorry  for  me  about  something,  you  always  have  that 
splendid  look.  It  puts  courage  into  people  to  see  it. 
If  I  had  a  struggle  to  face  I'd  keep  remembering  that 
look — and  I'd  never  give  up!  It's  a  brave  look,  too, 
as  though  gaiety  might  be  a  kind  of  gallantry  on 
your  part,  and  yet  I  don't  quite  understand  why  it 
should  be,  either."  He  smiled  quizzically,  looking 
down  upon  her.  "Mary,  you  haven't  a  'secret  sor 
row,'  have  you?" 

For  answer  she  only  laughed. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  can't  imagine  you  with  a  care 
in  the  world.  I  think  that's  why  you  were  so  kind 
to  me — you  have  nothing  but  happiness  in  your  own 
life,  and  so  you  could  spare  time  to  make  my  troubles 
turn  to  happiness,  too.  But  there's  one  little  time 
in  the  twenty-four  hours  when  I'm  not  happy.  It's 
novy,  when  I  have  to  say  good  night.  I  feel  dismal 
every  time  it  comes — and  then,  when  I've  left  the 

263 


THE   TURMOIL 

house,  there's  a  bad  little  blankness,  a  black  void, 
as  though  I  were  temporarily  dead;  and  it  lasts  until 
I  get  it  established  in  my  mind  that  I'm  really  be 
ginning  another  day  that's  to  end  with  you  again. 
Then  I  cheer  up.  But  now's  the  bad  time — and 
I  must  go  through  it,  and  so — good  night."  And 
he  added  with  a  pungent  vehemence  of  which  he 
was  little  aware,  "I  hate  it!" 

"Do  you?"  she  said,  rising  to  go  to  the  door  with 
him.  But  he  stood  motionless,  gazing  at  her  won- 
deringly. 

"Mary!    Your  eyes  are  so — "    He  stopped. 

"Yes?"    But  she  looked  quickly  away. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.    "I  thought  just  then—" 

"What  did  you  think?" 

"I  don't  know — it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was 
something  I  ought  to  understand — and  didn't." 

She  laughed  and  met  his  wondering  gaze  again 
frankly.  "My  eyes  are  pleased,"  she  said.  "I'm 
glad  that  you  miss  me  a  little  after  you  go." 

"But  to-morrow's  coming  faster  than  other  days 
if  you'll  let  it,"  he  said. 

She  inclined  her  head.    "Yes.    I'll— ' let  it'!" 

"Going  to  church,"  said  Bibbs.  "It  is  going  to 
church  when  I  go  with  you!" 

She  went  to  the  front  door  with  him;  she  always 
went  that  far.  They  had  formed  a  little  code  of 
leave-taking,  by  habit,  neither  of  them  ever  speaking 
of  it ;  but  it  was  always  the  same.  She  always  stood 
in  the  doorway  until  he  reached  the  sidewalk,  and 
there  he  always  turned  and  looked  back,  and  ^he 
waved  her  hand  to  him.  Then  he  went  on,  half 
way  to  the  New  House,  and  looked  back  again, 

264 


THEY   HAD   FORMED   A   LITTLE   CODE   OF   LEAVE-TAKING 


THE   TURMOIL 

and  Mary  was  not  in  the  doorway,  but  the  door 
was  open  and  the  light  shone.  It  was  as  if  she 
meant  to  tell  him  that  she  would  never  shut  him 
out;  he  could  always  see  that  friendly  light  of  the 
open  doorway — as  if  it  were  open  for  him  to  come 
back,  if  he  would.  He  could  see  it  until  a  wing 
of  the  New  House  came  between,  when  he  went  up 
the  path.  The  open  doorway  seemed  to  him  the 
beautiful  symbol  of  her  friendship — of  her  thought  of 
him;  a  symbol  of  herself  and  of  her  ineffable  kindness. 
And  she  kept  the  door  open — even  to-night,  though 
the  sleet  and  fine  snow  swept .  in  upon  her  bare 
throat  and  arms,  and  her  brown  hair  was  strewn  with 
tiny  white  stars.  His  heart  leaped  as  he  turned 
and  saw  that  she  was  there,  waving  her  hand  to 
him,  as  if  she  did  not  know  that  the  storm  touched 
her.  When  he  had  gone  on,  Mary  did  as  she  always 
did — she  went  into  an  unlit  room  across  the  hall 
from  that  in  which  they  had  spent  the  evening,  and, 
looking  from  the  window,  watched  him  until  he  was 
out  of  sight.  The  storm  made  that  difficult  to 
night,  but  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  under  the 
street-lamp  that  stood  between  the  two  houses,  and 
saw  that  he  turned  to  look  back  again.  Then,  and 
not  before,  she  looked  at  the  upper  windows  of 
Roscoe's  house  across  the  street.  They  were  dark. 
Mary  waited,  but  after  a  little  while  she  closed  the 
front  door  and  returned  to  her  window.  A  moment 
later  two  of  the  upper  windows  of  Roscoe's  house 
flashed  into  light  and  a  hand  lowered  the  shade  of 
one  of  them.  Mary  felt  the  cold  then — it  was  the 
third  night  she  had  seen  those  windows  lighted 
and  that  shade  lowered,  just  after  Bibbs  had  gone. 

265 


THE   TURMOIL 

But  Bibbs  had  no  glance  to  spare  for  Roscoe's 
windows.  He  stopped  for  his  last  look  back  at  the 
open  door,  and,  with  a  thin  mantle  of  white  already 
upon  his  shoulders,  made  his  way,  gasping  in  the 
wind,  to  the  lee  of  the  sheltering  wing  of  the  New 
House. 

A  stricken  George,  muttering  hoarsely,  admitted 
him,  and  Bibbs  became  aware  of  a  paroxysm  within 
the  house.  Terrible  sounds  came  from  the  library: 
Sheridan  cursing  as  never  before;  his  wife  sobbing, 
her  voice  rising  to  an  agonized  squeal  of  protest  upon 
each  of  a  series  of  muffled  detonations  —  the  out 
rageous  thumping  of  a  bandaged  hand  upon  wood; 
then  Gurney,  sharply  imperious,  "Keep  your  hand 
in  that  sling!  Keep  your  hand  in  that  sling,  I  say!" 

"  Look!"  George  gasped,  delighted  to  play  herald 
for  so  important  a  tragedy;  and  he  renewed  upon 
his  face  the  ghastly  expression  with  which  he  had 
first  beheld  the  ruins  his  calamitous  gesture  laid 
before  the  eyes  of  Bibbs.  "Look  at  'at  lamidal 
statue!" 

Gazing  down  the  hall,  Bibbs  saw  heroic  wreckage, 
seemingly  Byzantine  —  painted  colossal  fragments  of 
a  shattered  torso,  appallingly  human;  and  gilded 
and  silvered  heaps  of  magnificence  strewn  among 
ruinous  palms  like  the  spoil  of  a  barbarians'  bat 
tle.  There  had  been  a  massacre  in  the  oasis  —  the 
Moor  had  been  hurled  headlong  from  his  peclestal. 

"He  hit   'at  ole  lamidal  statue,"   said  George. 


"My  father?" 

"F0ssuh!    Paw!  he  hit  'er!    An'  you*  ma  run  tell 
me  git  doctuh  quick  's  I  kin  telefoam  —  she  sho' 

266 


THE   TURMOIL 

you*  pa  goin'  bus*  a  blood- vessel.  He  ain't  takin'  on 
'tall  now.  He  ain't  nothin'  'tall  to  what  he  was 
'while  ago.  You  done  miss'  it,  Mist'  Bibbs.  Doctuh 
got  him  all  quiet'  down,  to  what  he  was.  Pow!  he 
hit  'er!  Yessuh!"  He  took  Bibbs's  coat  and  prof 
fered  a  crumpled  telegraph  form.  "Here  what 
come,"  he  said.  "I  pick  'er  up  when  he  done 
stompin'  on  'er.  You  read  'er,  Mist'  Bibbs — you' 
ma  tell  me  tuhn  'er  ovuh  to  you  soon's  you  come  in." 
Bibbs  read  the  telegram  quickly.  It  was  from 
New  York  and  addressed  to  Mrs.  Sheridan. 

Sure  you  will  all  approve  step  have  taken  as  was  so  wretched 
my  health  would  probably  suffered  severely  Robert  and  I  were 
married  this  afternoon  thought  best  have  quiet  wedding  abso 
lutely  sure  you  will  understand  wisdom  of  step  when  you  know 
Robert  better  am  happiest  woman  in  world  are  leaving  for 
Florida  will  wire  address  when  settled  will  remain  till  spring 
love  to  all  father  will  like  him  too  when  knows  him  like  I  do 
he  is  just  ideal. 

EDITH  LAMHORN. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

GEORGE  departed,  and  Bibbs  was  left  gazing 
upon  chaos  and  listening  to  thunder.  He  could 
not  reach  the  stairway  without  passing  the  open  doors 
of  the  library,  and  he  was  convinced  that  the  mere 
glimpse  of  him,  just  then,  would  prove  nothing  less 
than  insufferable  for  his  father.  For  that  reason  he 
was  about  to  make  his  escape  into  the  gold-and- 
brocade  room,  intending  to  keep  out  of  sight,  when 
he  heard  Sheridan  vociferously  demanding  his  pres 
ence. 

"Tell  him  to  come  in  here!  He's  out  there.  I 
heard  George  just  let  him  in.  Now  you'll  seel" 
And  tear-stained  Mrs.  Sheridan,  looking  out  into  the 
hall,  beckoned  to  her  son. 

Bibbs  went  as  far  as  the  doorway.  Gurney  sat 
winding  a  strip  of  white  cotton,  his  black  bag  open 
upon  a  chair  near  by;  and  Sheridan  was  strid 
ing  up  and  down,  his  hand  so  heavily  wrapped  in 
fresh  bandages  that  he  seemed  to  be  wearing  a 
small  boxing-glove.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot;  his 
forehead  was  heavily  bedewed;  one  side  of  his  collar 
had  broken  loose,  and  there  were  blood-stains  upon 
his  right  cuff. 

"There's  our  little  sunshine!"  he  cried,  as  Bibbs 
appeared.  "There's  the  hope  o'  the  family — my 
lifelong  pride  and  joy!  I  want--" 

268 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Keep  your  hand  in  that  sling,"  said  Gurney, 
sharply. 

Sheridan  turned  upon  him,  uttering  a  sound  like 
a  howl.  "For  God's  sake,  sing  another  tune!"  he 
cried.  "You  said  you  'came  as  a  doctor  but  stay 
as  a  friend/  and  in  that  capacity  you  undertake  to 
sit  up  and  criticize  me — " 

"Oh,  talk  sense,"  said  the  doctor,  and  yawned 
intentionally.  "What  do  you  want  Bibbs  to  say?" 

"You  were  sittin'  up  there  tellin'  me  I  got  'hys 
terical' — 'hysterical/  oh  Lord!  You  sat  up  there 
and  told  me  I  got  'hysterical'  over  nothin'!  You 
sat  up  there  tellin7  me  I  didn't  have  as  heavy  bur 
dens  as  many  another  man  you  knew.  I  just  want 
you  to  hear  this.  Now  listen!"  He  swung  toward 
the  quiet  figure  waiting  in  the  doorway.  "Bibbs, 
will  you  come  down-town  with  me  Monday  morning 
and  let  me  start  you  with  two  vice-presidencies,  a 
directorship,  stock,  and  salaries?  I  ask  you." 

"No,  father,"  said  Bibbs,  gently. 

Sheridan  looked  at  Gurney  and  then  faced  his 
son  once  more. 

"Bibbs,  you  want  to  stay  in  the  shop,  do  you,  at 
nine  dollars  a  week,  instead  of  takin'  up  my  offer?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  I'd  like  the  doctor  to  hear:  What  '11  you 
do  if  I  decide  you're  too  high-priced  a  workin'-man 
either  to  live  in  my  house  or  work  in  my  shop?" 

"Find  other  work,"  said  Bibbs. 

"There!  You  hear  him  for  yourself!"  Sheridan 
cried.  ' '  You  hear  what — ' ' 

"Keep  your  hand  in  that  sling!    Yes,  I  hear  him/' 

Sheridan  leaned  over  Gurney  and  shouted,  in 

269 


THE  TURMOIL 

a  voice  that  cracked  and  broke,  piping  into  falsetto: 
"He  thinks  of  bein'  a  plumber!  He  wants  to  be  a 
plumber!  He  told  me  he  couldn't  think  if  he  went 
into  business — he  wants  to  be  a  plumber  so  he  can 
think  r 

He  fell  back  a  step,  wiping  his  forehead  with  the 
back  of  his  left  hand.  "There!  That's  my  son! 
That's  the  only  son  I  got  now!  That's  my  chance 
to  live,"  he  cried,  with  a  bitterness  that  seemed  to 
leave  ashes  in  his  throat.  "That's  my  one  chance 
to  live — that  thing  you  see  in  the  doorway  yonder!" 

Dr.  Gurney  thoughtfully  regarded  the  bandage 
strip  he  had  been  winding,  and  tossed  it  into  the 
open  bag.  "What's  the  matter  with  giving  Bibbs 
a  chance  to  live?"  he  said,  coolly.  "I  would  if  I 
were  you.  You've  had  two  that  went  into  business." 

Sheridan's  mouth  moved  grotesquely  before  he 
could  speak.  "Joe  Gurney,"  he  said,  when  he 
could  command  himself  so  far,  "are  you  accusin* 
me  of  the  responsibility  for  the  death  of  my  son 
James?" 

"I  accuse  you  of  nothing,"  said  the  doctor. 
"But  just  once  I'd  like  to  have  it  out  with  you  on 
the  question  of  Bibbs — and  while  he's  here,  too." 
He  got  up,  walked  to  the  fire,  and  stood  warming  his 
hands  behind  his  back  and  smiling.  * '  Look  here,  old 
fellow,  let's  be  reasonable,"  he  said.  "You  were 
bound  Bibbs  should  go  to  the  shop  again,  and  I  gave 
you  and  him,  both,  to  understand  pretty  plainly  that 
if  he  went  it  was  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  Well,  what 
did  he  do?  He  said  he  wanted  to  go.  And  he  did 
go,  and  he's  made  good  there.  Now,  see :  Isn't  that 
enough?  Can't  you  let  him  off  now?  He  wants  to 

270 


THE   TURMOIL 

write,  and  how  do  you  know  that  he  couldn't  do  it 
if  you  gave  him  a  chance?  How  do  you  know  he 
hasn't  some  message — something  to  say  that  might 
make  the  world  just  a  little  bit  happier  or  wiser? 
He  might — in  time — it's  a  possibility  not  to  be  de 
nied.  Now  he  can't  deliver  any  message  if  he  goes 
down  there  with  you,  and  he  won't  have  any  to  de 
liver.  I  don't  say  going  down  with  you  is  likely  to 
injure  his  health,  as  I  thought  the  shop  would,  and 
as  the  shop  did,  the  first  time.  I'm  not  speaking  as 
doctor  now,  anyhow.  But  I  tell  you  one  thing  I 
know:  if  you  take  him  down  there  you'll  kill  some 
thing  that  I  feel  is  in  him,  and  it's  finer,  I  think,  than 
his  physical  body,  and  you'll  kill  it  deader  than 
a  door-nail!  And  so  why  not  let  it  live?  You've 
about  come  to  the  end  of  your  string,  old  fellow. 
Why  not  stop  this  perpetual  devilish  fighting  and 
give  Bibbs  his  chance?" 

Sheridan  stood  looking  at  him  fixedly.  "What 
'fighting?'" 

"Yours  — with  nature."  Gurney  sustained  the 
daunting  gaze  of  his  fierce  antagonist  equably.  "You 
don't  seem  to  understand  that  you've  been  struggling 
against  actual  law." 

"What  law?" 

"Natural  law,"  said  Gurney.  "What  do  you 
think  beat  you  with  Edith?  Did  Edith,  herself, 
beat  you?  Didn't  she  obey  without  question  some 
thing  powerful  that  was  against  you?  Edith  wasn't 
against  you,  and  you  weren't  against  her,  but  you 
set  yourself  against  the  power  that  had  her  in  its 
grip,  and  it  shot  out  a  spurt  of  flame — and  won  in 
a  walk!  What's  taken  Roscoe  from  you?  Timbers 

18  271 


THE   TURMOIL 

bear  just  so  much  strain,  old  man;  but  you  wanted 
to  send  the  load  across  the  broken  bridge,  and  you 
thought  you  could  bully  or  coax  the  cracked  thing 
into  standing.  Well,  you  couldn't!  Now  here's 
Bibbs.  There  are  thousands  of  men  fit  for  the 
life  you  want  him  to  lead  —  and  so  is  he.  It 
wouldn't  take  half  of  Bibbs's  brains  to  be  twice 
as  good  a  business  man  as  Jim  and  Roscoe  put 
together." 

11  What!"     Sheridan  goggled  at  him  like  a  zany. 

"Your  son  Bibbs,"  said  the  doctor,  composedly, 
" Bibbs  Sheridan  has  the  kind  and  quantity  of  'gray 
matter'  that  will  make  him  a  success  in  anything — 
if  he  ever  wakes  up!  Personally  I  should  prefer 
him  to  remain  asleep.  I  like  him  that  way.  But  the 
thousands  of  men  fit  for  the  life  you  want  him  to 
lead  aren't  fit  to  do  much  with  the  life  he  ought  to 
lead.  Blindly,  he's  been  fighting  for  the  chance  to 
lead  it — he's  obeying  something  that  begs  to  stay 
alive  within  him;  and,  blindly,  he  knows  you'll 
crush  it  out.  You've  set  your  will  to  do  it.  Let 
me  tell  you  something  more.  You  don't  know  what 
you've  become  since  Jim's  going  thwarted  you — 
and  that's  what  was  uppermost,  a  bafflement  strong 
er  than  your  normal  grief.  You're  half  mad  with  a 
consuming  fury  against  the  very  self  of  the  law — for 
it  was  the  very  self  of  the  law  that  took  Jim  from 
you.  That  was  a  law  concerning  the  cohesion  of 
molecules.  The  very  self  of  the  law  took  Roscoe 
from  you  and  gave  Edith  the  certainty  of  beating 
you;  and  the  very  self  of  the  law  makes  Bibbs  deny 
you  to-night.  The  law  beats  you.  Haven't  you 
been  whipped  enough?  But  you  want  to  whip  the 

272 


THE   TURMOIL 

law — you've  set  yourself  against  it,  to  bend  it  to 
your  own  ends,  to  wield  it  and  twist  it — " 

The  voice  broke  from  Sheridan's  heaving  chest  in 
a  shout.  "Yes!  And  by  God,  I  will!" 

"So  Ajax  defied  the  lightning/'  said  Gurney. 

"I've  heard  that  dam'-fool  story,  too,"  Sheridan 
retorted,  fiercely.  "That's  for  chuldern  and  nig 
gers.  It  ain't  twentieth  century,  let  me  tell  you! 
'Defied  the  lightning/  did  he,  the  jackass!  If 
he'd  been  half  a  man  he'd  'a'  got  away  with  it. 
We  don't  go  showin'  off  defyin'  the  lightning — we 
hitch  it  up  and  make  it  work  for  us  like  a  black  steer! 
A  man  nowadays  would  just  as  soon  think  o'  defyin' 
a  wood-shed!" 

"Well,  what  about  Bibbs?"  said  Gurney.  "Will 
you  be  a  really  big  man  now  and — " 

"Gurney,  you  know  a  lot  about  bigness!"  Sheri 
dan  began  to  walk  to  and  fro  again,  and  the  doctor 
returned  gloomily  to  his  chair.  He  had  shot  his 
bolt  the  moment  he  judged  its  chance  to  strike  center 
was  best,  but  the  target  seemed  unaware  of  the 
marksman. 

"I'm  tryin'  to  make  a  big  man  out  o'  that  poor 
truck  yonder,"  Sheridan  went  on,  "and  you  step  in, 
beggin'  me  to  let  him  be  Lord  knows  what — I  don't ! 
I  suppose  you  figure  it  out  that  now  I  got  a  son-in- 
law,  I  mightn't  need  a  son!  Yes,  I  got  a  son-in-law 
now — a  spender!" 

"Oh,  put  your  hand  back!"  said  Gurney,  wearily. 

There  was  a  bronze  inkstand  upon  the  table. 
Sheridan  put  his  right  hand  in  the  sling,  but  with 
his  left  he  swept  the  inkstand  from  the  table  and 
half-way  across  the  room — a  comet  with  a  destroy- 

273 


THE   TURMOIL 

ing  black  tail.     Mrs.  Sheridan  shrieked  and  sprang 
toward  it. 

"Let  it  lay!"  he  shouted,  fiercely.  "Let  it  lay!" 
And,  weeping,  she  obeyed.  "Yes,  sir,"  he  went  on, 
in  a  voice  the  more  ominous  for  the  sudden  hush 
he  put  upon  it.  "I  got  a  spender  for  a  son-in- 
law!  It's  wonderful  where  property  goes,  sometimes. 
There  was  ole  man  Tracy — you  remember  him,  Doc 
— J.  R.  Tracy,  solid  banker.  He  went  into  the  bank 
as  messenger,  seventeen  years  old;  he  was  president 
at  forty-three,  and  he  built  that  bank  with  his  life 
for  forty  years  more.  He  was  down  there  from  nine 
in  the  morning  until  four  in  the  afternoon  the  day 
before  he  died — over  eighty!  Gilt  edge,  that  bank? 
It  was  diamond  edge!  He  used  to  eat  a  bag  o'  pea 
nuts  and  an  apple  for  lunch;  but  he  wasn't  stingy — 
he  was  just  livin'  in  his  business.  He  didn't  care  for 
pie  or  automobiles — he  had  his  bank.  It  was  an 
institution,  and  it  come  pretty  near  bein*  the  beatin' 
heart  o'  this  town  in  its  time.  Well,  that  ole  man 
used  to  pass  one  o'  these  here  turned-up-nose  and 
turned  -  up  -  pants  cigarette  boys  on  the  streets. 
Never  spoke  to  him,  Tracy  didn't.  Speak  to  him? 
God!  he  wouldn't  'a'  coughed  on  him!  He  wouldn't 
'a'  let  him  clean  the  cuspidors  at  the  bank!  Why, 
if  he'd  'a'  just  seen  him  standin'  in  front  the  bank  he'd 
'a'  had  him  run  off  the  street.  And  yet  all  Tracy 
was  doin'  every  day  of  his  life  was  workin'  for  that 
cigarette  boy!  Tracy  thought  it  was  for  the  bank; 
he  thought  he  was  givin'  his  life  and  his  life-blood 
and  the  blood  of  his  brain  for  the  bank,  but  he  wasn't. 
It  was  every  bit — from  the  time  he  went  in  at  seven 
teen  till  he  died  in  harness  at  eighty-three — it  was 

274 


THE   TURMOIL 

every  last  lick  of  it  just  slavin'  for  that  turned- 
up-nose,  turned-up-pants  cigarette  boy.  And  Tracy 
didn't  even  know  his  name!  He  died,  not  ever  havin' 
heard  it,  though  he  chased  him  off  the  front  steps 
of  his  house  once.  The  day  after  Tracy  died  his 
old-maid  daughter  married  the  cigarette — and  there 
ain't  any  Tracy  bank  any  more!  And  now" — his 
voice  rose  again — "and  now  /  got  a  cigarette  son- 
in-law!" 

Gurney  pointed  to  the  flourishing  right  hand 
without  speaking,  and  Sheridan  once  more  returned 
it  to  the  sling. 

"My  son-in-law  likes  Florida  this  winter,"  Sheri 
dan  went  on.  "That's  good,  and  my  son-in-law 
better  enjoy  it,  because  I  don't  think  hell  be  there 
next  winter.  They  got  twelve-thousand  dollars  to 
spend,  and  I  hear  it  can  be  done  in  Florida  by  rich 
sons-in-law.  When  Roscoe's  woman  got  me  to 
spend  that  much  on  a  porch  for  their  new  house, 
Edith  wouldn't  give  me  a  minute's  rest  till  I  turned 
over  the  same  to  her.  And  she's  got  it,  besides 
what  I  gave  her  to  go  East  on.  It  '11  be  gone  long 
before  this  time  next  year,  and  when  she  comes 
home  and  leaves  the  cigarette  behind — for  good — 
she'll  get  some  more.  My  name  ain't  Tracy,  and 
there  ain't  goin'  to  be  any  Tracy  business  in  the 
Sheridan  family.  And  there  ain't  goin'  to  be  any 
college  foundin'  and  endowin'  and  trusteein',  nor 
God-knows-what  to  keep  my  property  alive  when 
I'm  gone!  Edith  '11  be  back,  and  she'll  get  a 
girl's  share  when  she's  through  with  that  cigarette, 
but—" 

"By  the  way,"  interposed  Gurney,  "didn't  Mrs. 
275 


THE   TURMOIL 

Sheridan  tell  me  that  Bibbs  warned  you  Edith  would 
marry  Lamhorn  in  New  York?" 

Sheridan  went  completely  to  pieces:  he  swore, 
while  his  wife  screamed  and  stopped  her  ears.  And 
as  he  swore  he  pounded  the  table  with  his  wounded 
hand,  and  when  the  doctor,  after  storming  at  him 
ineffectively,  sprang  to  catch  and  protect  that  hand, 
Sheridan  wrenched  it  away,  tearing  the  bandage. 
He  hammered  the  table  till  it  leaped. 

"Fool!"  he  panted,  choking.  "If  he's  shown 
gumption  enough  to  guess  right  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  it's  enough  for  me  to  begin  learnin'  him  on!" 
And,  struggling  with  the  doctor,  he  leaned  toward 
Bibbs,  thrusting  forward  his  convulsed  face,  which 
was  deathly  pale.  "My  name  ain't  Tracy,  I  tell 
you!"  he  screamed,  hoarsely.  "You  give  in,  you 
stubborn  fool!  I've  had  my  way  with  you  before, 
and  I'll  have  my  way  with  you  now!" 

Bibbs's  face  was  as  white  as  his  father's,  but  he 
kept  remembering  that  "splendid  look"  of  Mary's 
which  he  had  told  her  would  give  him  courage  in 
a  struggle,  so  that  he  would  "never  give  up." 

"No.  You  can't  have  your  way,"  he  said.  And 
then,  obeying  a  significant  motion  of  Gurney's  head, 
he  went  out  quickly,  leaving  them  struggling. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

MRS.  SHERIDAN,  in  a  wrapper,  noiselessly 
opened  the  door  of  her  husband's  room  at 
daybreak  the  next  morning,  and  peered  within  the 
darkened  chamber.  At  the  "old"  house  they  had 
shared  a  room,  but  the  architect  had  chosen  to 
separate  them  at  the  New,  and  they  had  not  known 
how  to  formulate  an  objection,  although  to  both  of 
them  something  seemed  vaguely  reprehensible  in  the 
new  arrangement. 

Sheridan  did  not  stir,  and  she  was  withdrawing 
her  head  from  the  aperture  when  he  spoke. 

"Oh,  I'm  awake!  Come  in,  if  you  want  to,  and 
shut  the  door." 

She  came  and  sat  by  the  bed.  ' '  I  woke  up  thinkin' 
about  it,"  she  explained.  "And  the  more  I  thought 
about  it  the  surer  I  got  I  must  be  right,  and  I  knew 
you'd  be  tormentin'  yourself  if  you  was  awake,  so — 
well,  you  got  plenty  other  troubles,  but  I'm  just 
sure  you  ain't  goin*  to  have  the  worry  with  Bibbs  it 
looks  like." 

"You  bet  I  ain't!"  he  grunted. 

"Look  how  biddable  he  was  about  goin'  back  to 
the  Works,"  she  continued.  "He's  a  right  good- 
hearted  boy,  really,  and  sometimes  I  honestly  have 
to  say  he  seems  right  smart,  too.  Now  and  then 
he'll  say  something  sounds  right  bright.  'Course, 

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THE  TURMOIL 

most  always  it  doesn't,  and  a  good  deal  of  the  time, 
when  he  says  things,  why,  I  have  to  feel  glad  we 
haven't  got  company,  because  they'd  think  he 
didn't  have  any  gumption  at  all.  Yet,  look  at  the 
way  he  did  when  Jim — when  Jim  got  hurt.  He  took 
right  hold  o'  things.  'Course  he'd  been  sick  himself 
so  much  and  all — and  the  rest  of  us  never  had, 
much,  and  we  were  kind  o'  green  about  what  to 
do  in  that  kind  o'  trouble — still,  he  did  take  hold, 
and  everything  went  off  all  right;  you'll  have  to 
say  that  much,  papa.  And  Dr.  Gurney  says  he's 
got  brains,  and  you  can't  deny  but  what  the  doctor's 
right  considerable  of  a  man.  He  acts  sleepy,  but 
that's  only  because  he's  got  such  a  large  practice — 
he's  a  pretty  wide-awake  kind  of  a  man  some  ways. 
Well,  what  he  says  last  night  about  Bibbs  himself 
bein'  asleep,  and  how  much  he'd  amount  to  if  he 
ever  woke  up — that's  what  I  got  to  thinkin'  about. 
You  heard  him,  papa:  he  says,  *  Bibbs  '11  be  a  bigger 
business  man  than  what  Jim  and  Roscoe  was  put 
together — if  he  ever  wakes  up/  he  says.  Wasn't 
that  exactly  what  he  says?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Sheridan,  without  exhibit 
ing  any  interest.  "  Gurney 's  crazier  'n  Bibbs,  but 
if  he  wasn't  —  if  what  he  says  was  true  —  what 
of  it?" 

"Listen,  papa.  Just  suppose  Bibbs  took  it  into 
his  mind  to  get  married.  You  know  where  he  goes 
all  the  time — " 

"Oh,  Lord,  yes!"  Sheridan  turned  over  in  the 
bed,  his  face  to  the  wall,  leaving  visible  of  himself 
only  the  thick  grizzle  of  his  hair.  "You  better  go 
back  to  sleep.  He  runs  over  there — every  minute 

278 


THE  TURMOIL 

she'll  let  him,  I  suppose.    Go  back  to  bed.    There's 
nothin'  in  it." 

"Why  ain't  there?"  she  urged.  "I  know  bet 
ter — there  is,  too!  You  wait  and  see.  There's  just 
one  thing  in  the  world  that  11  wake  the  sleepiest 
young  man  alive  up — yes,  and  make  him  jump  up— 
and  I  don't  care  who  he  is  or  how  sound  asleep  it 
looks  like  he  is.  That's  when  he  takes  it  into  his 
head  to  pick  out  some  girl  and  settle  down  and 
have  a  home  and  chuldern  of  his  own.  Then,  I 
guess,  he'll  go  out  after  the  money!  You'll  see. 
I've  known  dozens  o*  cases,  and  so  've  you — moony, 
no-'count  young  men,  all  notions  and  talk,  goin'  to 
be  ministers,  maybe,  or  something;  and  there's  just 
this  one  thing  takes  it  out  of  'em  and  brings  'em 
right  down  to  business.  Well,  I  never  could  make 
out  just  what  it  is  Bibbs  wants  to  be,  really;  doesn't 
seem  he  wants  to  be  a  minister  exactly — he's  so  far 
away  you  can't  tell,  and  he  never  says— but  I  know 
this  is  goin'  to  get  him  right  down  to  common  sense. 
Now,  I  don't  say  that  Bibbs  has  got  the  idea  in  his 
head  yet — *r  else  he  wouldn't  be  talkin'  that  fool-talk 
about  nine  dollars  a  week  bein'  good  enough  for  him 
to  live  on.  But  it's  comin\  papa,  and  he'll  jump 
for  whatever  you  want  to  hand  him  out.  He  will! 
And  I  can  tell  you  this  much,  too:  he'll  want  all 
the  salary  and  stock  he  can  get  hold  of,  and  he'll 
hustle  to  keep  gettin'  more.  That  girl's  the  kind 
that  a  young  husband  just  goes  crazy  to  give  things 
to!  She's  pretty  and  fine-lookin',  and  things  look 
nice  on  her,  and  I  guess  she'd  like  to  have  'em  about 
as  well  as  the  next.  And  I  guess  she  isn't  gettin' 
many  these  days,  either,  and  she'll  be  pretty  ready 

279 


THE  TURMOIL 

for  the  change.  I  saw  her  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up 
at  the  kitchen  window  the  other  day,  and  Jackson 
told  me  yesterday  their  cook  left  two  weeks  ago, 
and  they  haven't  tried  to  hire  another  one.  He 
says  her  and  her  mother  been  doin'  the  house 
work  a  good  while,  and  now  they're  doin'  the  cookin,' 
too.  'Course  Bibbs  wouldn't  know  that  unless  she's 
told  him,  and  I  reckon  she  wouldn't;  she's  kind  o* 
stiffish-lookin',  and  Bibbs  is  too  up  in  the  clouds  to 
notice  anything  like  that  for  himself.  They've  never 
asked  him  to  a  meal  in  the  house,  but  he  wouldn't 
notice  that,  either — he's  kind  of  innocent.  Now  I 
was  thinkin' — you  know,  I  don't  suppose  we've 
hardly  mentioned  the  girl's  name  at  table  since 
Jim  went,  but  it  seems  to  me  maybe  if — " 

Sheridan  flung  out  his  arms,  uttering  a  sound 
half -groan,  half -yawn.  "You're  barkin*  up  the 
wrong  tree!  Go  on  back  to  bed,  mamma!" 

"Why  am  I?"  she  demanded,  crossly.  "Why  am 
I  barkin'  up  the  wrong  tree?" 

"Because  you  are.     There's  nothin*  in  it." 

"I'll  bet  you,"  she  said,  rising— "I'll  bet  you  he 
goes  to  church  with  her  this  morning.  What  you 
want  to  bet?" 

"Go  back  to  bed,"  he  commanded.  "I  know 
what  I'm  talkin'  about;  there's  nothin'  in  it,  I  tell1 
you." 

She  shook  her  head  perplexedly.  "You  think 
because — because  Jim  was  runnin*  so  much  with  her 
it  wouldn't  look  right?" 

"No.     Nothin'  to  do  with  it." 

"Then—do  you  know  something  about  it  that 
you  ain't  told  me?" 

280 


THE  TURMOIL 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  grunted.  "Now  go  on.  Maybe 
I  can  get  a  little  sleep.  I  ain't  had  any  yet !" 

"Well — "  She  went  to  the  door,  her  expression 
downcast .  ' '  I  thought  maybe — but — ' '  She  coughed 
prefatorily.  "Oh,  papa,  something  else  I  wanted  to 
tell  you.  I  was  talkin'  to  Roscoe  over  the  'phone 
last  night  when  the  telegram  came,  so  I  forgot  to 
tell  you,  but — well,  Sibyl  wants  to  come  over  this 
afternoon.  Roscoe  says  she  has  something  she  wants 
to  say  to  us.  It  '11  be  the  first  time  she's  been  out 
since  she  was  able  to  sit  up — and  I  reckon  she  wants 
to  tell  us  she's  sorry  for  what  happened.  They  ex 
pect  to  get  off  by  the  end  o'  the  week,  and  I  reckon 
she  wants  to  feel  she's  done  what  she  could  to  kind 
o'  make  up.  Anyway,  that's  what  he  said.  I 
'phoned  him  again  about  Edith,  and  he  said  it 
wouldn't  disturb  Sibyl,  because  she'd  been  expectin' 
it;  she  was  sure  all  along  it  was  goin'  to  happen; 
and,  besides,  I  guess  she's  got  all  that  foolishness 
pretty  much  out  of  her,  bein'  so  sick.  But  what  I 
thought  was,  no  use  bein'  rough  with  her,  papa— I 
expect  she's  suffered  a  good  deal — and  I  don't  think 
we'd  ought  to  be,  on  Roscoe's  account.  You'll — 
you'll  be  kind  o'  polite  to  her,  won't  you,  papa?" 

He  mumbled  something  which  was  smothered 
under  the  coverlet  he  had  pulled  over  his  head. 

"What?"  she  said,  timidly.  "I  was  just  savin' 
I  hoped  you'd  treat  Sibyl  all  right  when  she  comes, 
this  afternoon.  You  will,  won't  you,  papa?" 

He  threw  the  coverlet  off  furiously.  "I  presume 
so!"  he  roared. 

She  departed  guiltily. 

But  if  he  had  accepted  her  proffered  wager  that 

281 


THE  TURMOIL 

Bibbs  would  go  to  church  with  Mary  Vertices  that 
morning,  Mrs.  Sheridan  would  have  lost.  Never 
theless,  Bibbs  and  Mary  did  certainly  set  out  from 
Mr.  Vertrees's  house  with  the  purpose  of  going  to 
church.  That  was  their  intention,  and  they  had 
no  other.  They  meant  to  go  to  church. 

But  it  happened  that  they  were  attentively  pre 
occupied  in  a  conversation  as  they  came  to  the 
church;  and  though  Mary  was  looking  to  the  right 
and  Bibbs  was  looking  to  the  left,  Bibbs's  leftward 
glance  converged  with  Mary's  rightward  glance, 
and  neither  was  looking  far  beyond  the  other  at  this 
time.  It  also  happened  that,  though  they  were  a 
little  jostled  among  groups  of  people  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  church,  they  passed  this  somewhat  prominent 
edifice  without  being  aware  of  their  proximity  to  it, 
and  they  had  gone  an  incredible  number  of  blocks 
beyond  it  before  they  discovered  their  error.  How 
ever,  feeling  that  they  might  be  embarrassingly  late 
if  they  returned,  they  decided  that  a  walk  would 
make  them  as  good.  It  was  a  windless  winter  morn 
ing,  with  an  inch  of  crisp  snow  over  the  ground.  So 
they  walked,  and  for  the  most  part  they  were  silent, 
but  on  their  way  home,  after  they  had  turned  back 
at  noon,  they  began  to  be  talkative  again. 

"Mary,"  said  Bibbs,  after  a  time,  "am  I  a  sleep 
walker?" 

She  laughed  a  little,  then  looked  grave.  "Does 
your  father  say  you  are?" 

"Yes — when  he's  in  a  mood  to  flatter  me.  Other 
times,  other  names.  He  has  quite  a  list." 

"You  mustn't  mind,"  she  said,  gently.  "He's 
been  getting  some  pretty  severe  shocks.  What 

282 


THE  TURMOIL 

you've  told  me  makes  me  pretty  sorry  for  him,  Bibbs. 
I've  always  been  sure  he's  very  big." 

"Yes.  Big  and  —  blind.  He's  like  a  Hercules 
without  eyes  and  without  any  consciousness  except 
that  of  his  strength  and  of  his  purpose  to  grow 
stronger.  Stronger  for  what?  For  nothing." 

"Are  you  sure,  Bibbs?  It  can't  be  for  nothing; 
it  must  be  stronger  for  something,  even  though 
he  doesn't  know  what  it  is.  Perhaps  what  he  and 
his  kind  are  struggling  for  is  something  so  great  they 
couldn't  see  it — so  great  none  of  us  could  see  it." 

"No,  he's  just  like  some  blind,  unconscious  thing 
heaving  underground — " 

"Till  he  breaks  through  and  leaps  out  into  the 
daylight,"  she  finished  for  him,  cheerily. 

"Into  the  smoke,"  said  Bibbs.  "Look  at  the 
powder  of  coal-dust  already  dirtying  the  decent 
snow,  even  though  it's  Sunday.  That's  from  the 
little  pigs;  the  big  ones  aren't  so  bad,  on  Sunday! 
There's  a  fleck  of  soot  on  your  cheek.  Some  pig 
sent  it  out  into  the  air;  he  might  as  well  have 
thrown  it  on  you.  It  would  have  been  braver,  for 
then  he'd  have  taken  his  chance  of  my  whipping 
him  for  it  if  I  could." 

"Is  there  soot  on  my  cheek,  Bibbs,  or  were  you 
only  saying  so  rhetorically?  Is  there?" 

"Is  there?  There  are  soot  on  your  cheeks,  Mary 
—a  fleck  on  each.  One  landed  since  I  mentioned  the 
first." 

She  halted  immediately,  giving  him  her  hand 
kerchief,  and  he  succeeded  in  transferring  most  of 
the  black  from  her  face  to  the  cambric.  They  were 
entirely  matter-of-course  about  it. 

283 


THE    TURMOIL 

An  elderly  couple,  it  chanced,  had  been  walking 
behind  Bibbs  and  Mary  for  the  last  block  or  so, 
and  passed  ahead  during  the  removal  of  the  soot. 
"There!"  said  the  elderly  wife.  "You're  always 
wrong  when  you  begin  guessing  about  strangers. 
Those  two  young  people  aren't  honeymooners  at  all 
—they've  been  married  for  years.  A  blind  man 
could  see  that." 

"I  wish  I  did  know  who  threw  that  soot  on  you," 
said  Bibbs,  looking  up  at  the  neighboring  chimneys, 
as  they  went  on.  "They  arrest  children  for  throw 
ing  snowballs  at  the  street-cars,  but — " 

"But  they  don't  arrest  the  street-cars  for  shaking 
all  the  pictures  in  the  houses  crooked  every  time  they 
go  by.  Nor  for  the  uproar  they  make.  I  wonder 
what's  the  cost  in  nerves  for  the  noise  of  the  city 
each  year.  Yes,  we  pay  the  price  for  living  in  a  'grow 
ing  town,'  whether  we  have  money  to  pay  or  none." 

"Who  is  it  gets  the  pay?"  said  Bibbs. 

"Not  I!"  she  laughed. 

"Nobody  gets  it.  There  isn't  any  pay;  there's 
only  money.  And  only  some  of  the  men  down 
town  get  much  of  that.  That's  what  my  father 
wants  me  to  get." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  smiling  to  him,  and  nodding. 
"And  you  don't  want  it,  and  you  don't  need  it." 

"But  you  don't  think  I'm  a  sleep-walker,  Mary?" 
He  had  told  her  of  his  father's  new  plans  for  him, 
though  he  had  not  described  the  vigor  and  pictu- 
resqueness  of  their  setting  forth.  "You  think  I'm 
right?" 

"A  thousand  times!"  she  cried.  "There  aren't 

284 


THE   TURMOIL 

so  many  happy  people  in  this  world,  I  think — and 
you  say  you've  found  what  makes  you  happy.  If 
it's  a  dream — keep  it!" 

"The  thought  of  going  down  there  —  into  the 
money  shuffle — I  hate  it  as  I  never  hated  the  shop!" 
he  said.  "I  hate  it!  And  the  city  itself,  the  city 
that  the  money  shuffle  has  made — just  look  at  it! 
Look  at  it  in  winter.  The  snow's  tried  hard  to  make 
the  ugliness  bearable,  but  the  ugliness  is  winning; 
it's  making  the  snow  hideous;  the  snow's  getting 
dirty  on  top,  and  it's  foul  underneath  with  the  dirt 
and  disease  of  the  unclean  street.  And  the  dirt 
and  the  ugliness  and  the  rush  and  the  noise  aren't 
the  worst  of  it;  it's  what  the  dirt  and  ugliness  and 
rush  and  noise  mean — that's  the  worst!  The  out 
ward  things  are  insufferable,  but  they're  only  the 
expression  of  a  spirit — a  blind  embryo  of  a  spirit, 
not  yet  a  soul — oh,  just  greed!  And  this  'go  ahead' 
nonsense!  Oughtn't  it  all  to  be  a  fellowship?  I 
shouldn't  want  to  get  ahead  if  I  could — I'd  want  to 
help  the  other  fellow  to  keep  up  with  me." 

"I  read  something  the  other  day  and  remembered 
it  for  you,"  said  Mary.  "It  was  something  Burne- 
Jones  said  of  a  picture  he  was  going  to  paint:  'In 
the  first  picture  I  shall  make  a  man  walking  in  the 
street  of  a  great  city,  full  of  all  kinds  of  happy 
life:  children,  and  lovers  walking,  and  ladies  lean 
ing  from  windows  all  down  great  lengths  of  street 
leading  to  the  city  walls;  and  there  the  gates  are 
wide  open,  letting  in  a  space  of  green  field  and  corn 
field  in  harvest;  and  all  round  his  head  a  great 
rain  of  swirling  autumn  leaves  blowing  from  a  little 
walled  graveyard.'" 

285 


THE   TURMOIL 

"And  if  I  painted,"  Bibbs  returned,  "I'd  paint 
a  lady  walking  in  the  street  of  a  great  city,  full  of  all 
kinds  of  uproarious  and  futile  life — children  being 
taught  only  how  to  make  money,  and  lovers  hurry 
ing  to  get  richer,  and  ladies  who'd  given  up  trying  to 
wash  their  windows  clean,  and  the  gates  of  the  city 
wide  open,  letting  in  slums  and  slaughter-houses 
and  freight-yards,  and  all  round  this  lady's  head  a 
great  rain  of  swirling  soot—  He  paused,  adding, 
thoughtf ully :  "And  yet  I  believe  I'm  glad  that  soot 
got  on  your  cheek.  It  was  just  as  if  I  were  your 
brother — the  way  you  gave  me  your  handkerchief 
to  rub  it  off  for  you.  Still,  Edith  never — " 

"Didn't  she?"  said  Mary,  as  he  paused  again. 

"No.  And  I — "  He  contented  himself  with 
shaking  his  head  instead  of  offering  more  definite 
information.  Then  he  realized  that  they  were  pass 
ing  the  New  House,  and  he  sighed  profoundly. 
"Mary,  our  walk's  almost  over." 

She  looked  as  blank.    "So  it  is,  Bibbs." 

They  said  no  more  until  they  came  to  her  gate. 
As  they  drifted  slowly  to  a  stop,  the  door  of  Roscoe's 
house  opened,  and  Roscoe  came  out  with  Sibyl,  who 
was  startlingly  pale.  She  seemed  little  enfeebled 
by  her  illness,  however,  walking  rather  quickly  at  her 
husband's  side  and  not  taking  his  arm.  The  two 
crossed  the  street  without  appearing  to  see  Mary 
and  her  companion,  and,  entering  the  New  House, 
were  lost  to  sight.  Mary  gazed  after  them  grave 
ly,  but  Bibbs,  looking  at  Mary,  did  not  see 
them. 

' '  Mary, ' '  he  said, ' '  you  seem  very  serious.  Is  any 
thing  bothering  you?" 

286 


THE   TURMOIL 

"No,  Bibbs."  And  she  gave  him  a  bright,  quick 
look  that  made  him  instantly  unreasonably  happy. 

"I  know  you  want  to  go  in — "  he  began. 

"No.    I  don't  want  to." 

"I  mustn't  keep  you  standing  here,  and  I  mustn't 
go  in  with  you — but — I  just  wanted  to  say — I've 
seemed  very  stupid  to  myself  this  morning,  grum 
bling  about  soot  and  all  that — while  all  the  time  I — 
Mary,  I  think  it's  been  the  very  happiest  of  all  the 
hours  you've  given  me.  I  do.  And — I  don't  know 
just  why — but  it's  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  one 
I'd  always  remember.  And  you,"  he  added,  falter- 
ingly,  "you  look  so — so  beautiful  to-day!" 

"It  must  have  been  the  soot  on  my  cheek,  Bibbs." 

"Mary,  will  you  tell  me  something?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  I  will." 

"It's  something  I've  had  a  lot  of  theories  about, 
but  none  of  them  ever  just  fits.  You  used  to  wear 
furs  in  the  fall,  but  now  it's  so  much  colder,  you 
don't — you  never  wear  them  at  all  any  more.  Why 
don't  you?" 

Her  eyes  fell  for  a  moment,  and  she  grew  red. 
Then  she  looked  up  gaily.  "Bibbs,  if  I  tell  you  the 
answer  will  you  promise  not  to  ask  any  more  ques 
tions?" 

"Yes.    Why  did  you  stop  wearing  them?" 

"Because  I  found  I'd  be  warmer  without  them!" 
She  caught  his  hand  quickly  in  her  own  for  an 
instant,  laughed  into  his  eyes,  and  ran  into  the  house. 

19 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

IT  is  the  consoling  attribute  of  unused  books 
that  their  decorative  warmth  will  so  often  make 
even  a  ready-made  library  the  actual  "living- 
room"  of  a  family  to  whom  the  shelved  volumes 
are  indeed  sealed.  Thus  it  was  with  Sheridan,  who 
read  nothing  except  newspapers,  business  letters, 
and  figures;  who  looked  upon  books  as  he  looked 
upon  bric-a-brac  or  crocheting — when  he  was  at 
home,  and  not  abed  or  eating,  he  was  in  the  library. 

He  stood  in  the  many-colored  light  of  the  stained- 
glass  window  at  the  far  end  of  the  long  room,  when 
Roscoe  and  his  wife  came  in,  and  he  exhaled  a 
solemnity.  His  deference  to  the  Sabbath  was  mani 
fest,  as  always,  in  the  length  of  his  coat  and  the 
closeness  of  his  Saturday-night  shave;  and  his  ex 
pression,  to  match  this  religious  pomp,  was  more  than 
Sabbatical,  but  the  most  dismaying  of  his  demon 
strations  was  his  keeping  his  hand  in  his  sling. 

Sibyl  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
halted  there,  not  looking  at  him,  but  down  at  her 
muff,  in  which,  it  could  be  seen,  her  hands  were 
nervously  moving.  Roscoe  went  to  a  chair  in  another 
part  of  the  room.  There  was  a  deadly  silence. 

But  Sibyl  found  a  shaky  voice,  after  an  interval 
of  gulping,  though  she  was  unable  to  lift  her  eyes, 
and  the  darkling  lids  continued  to  veil  them.  Shf 

288 


THE   TURMOIL 

spoke  hurriedly,  like  an  ungifted  child  reciting 
something  committed  to  memory,  but  her  sincerity 
was  none  the  less  evident  for  that. 

11  Father  Sheridan,  you  and  mother  Sheridan  have 
always  been  so  kind  to  me,  and  I  would  hate  to 
have  you  think  I  don't  appreciate  it,  from  the  way 
I  acted.  I've  come  to  tell  you  I  am  sorry  for  the 
way  I  did  that  night,  and  to  say  I  know  as  well 
as  anybody  the  way  I  behaved,  and  it  will  never 
happen  again,  because  it's  been  a  pretty  hard  les 
son;  and  when  we  come  back,  some  day,  I  hope 
you'll  see  that  you've  got  a  daughter-in-law  you 
never  need  to  be  ashamed  of  again.  I  want  to  ask 
you  to  excuse  me  for  the  way  I  did,  and  I  can  say 
I  haven't  any  feelings  toward  Edith  now,  but  only 
wish  her  happiness  and  good  in  her  new  life.  I 
thank  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me,  and  I  know 
I  made  a  poor  return  for  it,  but  if  you  can  overlook 
the  way  I  behaved  I  know  I  would  feel  a  good  deal 
happier — and  I  know  Roscoe  would,  too.  I  wish  to 
promise  not  to  be  as  foolish  in  the  future,  and  the 
same  error  would  never  occur  again  to  make  us  all 
so  unhappy,  if  you  can  be  charitable  enough  to 
excuse  it  this  time." 

He  looked  steadily  at  her  without  replying,  and 
she  stood  before  him,  never  lifting  her  eyes ;  motion 
less,  save  where  the  moving  fur  proved  the  agitation 
of  her  hands  within  the  muff. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  at  last. 

She  looked  up  then  with  vast  relief,  though  there 
was  a  revelation  of  heavy  tears  when  the  eyelids 
lifted. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.    "There's  something  else 

289 


THE   TURMOIL 

— about  something  different — I  want  to  say  to  you, 
but  I  want  mother  Sheridan  to  hear  it,  too." 

"She's  up-stairs  in  her  room,"  said  Sheridan. 
"Roscoe— " 

Sibyl  interrupted.  She  had  just  seen  Bibbs  pass 
through  the  hall  and  begin  to  ascend  the  stairs; 
and  in  a  flash  she  instinctively  perceived  the  chance 
for  precisely  the  effect  she  wanted. 

"No,  let  me  go,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  speak  to 
her  a  minute  first,  anyway." 

And  she  went  away  quickly,  gaining  the  top  of 
the  stairs  in  time  to  see  Bibbs  enter  his  room  and 
close  the  door.  Sibyl  knew  that  Bibbs,  in  his  room, 
had  overheard  her  quarrel  with  Edith  in  the  hall 
outside;  for  bitter  Edith,  thinking  the  more  to 
shame  her,  had  subsequently  informed  her  of  the 
circumstance.  Sibyl  had  just  remembered  this,  and 
with  the  recollection  there  had  flashed  the  thought — 
out  of  her  own  experience — that  people  are  often 
much  more  deeply  impressed  by  words  they  over 
hear  than  by  words  directly  addressed  to  them. 
Sibyl  intended  to  make  it  impossible  for  Bibbs  not 
to  overhear.  She  did  not  hesitate — her  heart  was 
hot  with  the  old  sore,  and  she  believed  wholly  in  the 
justice  of  her  cause  and  in  the  truth  of  what  she  was 
going  to  say.  Fate  was  virtuous  at  times;  it  had 
delivered  into  her  hands  the  girl  who  had  affronted 
her. 

Mrs.  Sheridan  was  in  her  own  room.  The  ap 
proach  of  Sibyl  and  Roscoe  had  driven  her  from  the 
library,  for  she  had  miscalculated  her  husband's 
mood,  and  she  felt  that  if  he  used  his  injured  hand 
as  a  mark  of  emphasis  again,  in  her  presence,  she 

290 


THE   TURMOIL 

would  (as  she  thought  of  it)  "have  a  fit  right  there." 
She  heard  Sibyl's  step,  and  pretended  to  be  putting 
a  touch  to  her  hair  before  a  mirror. 

"I  was  just  coming  down,"  she  said,  as  the  door 
opened. 

"Yes,  he  wants  you  to,"  said  Sibyl.  "It's  all 
right,  mother  Sheridan.  He's  forgiven  me." 

Mrs.  Sheridan  sniffed  instantly;  tears  appeared. 
She  kissed  her  daughter-in-law's  cheek;  then,  in 
silence,  regarded  the  mirror  afresh,  wiped  her  eyes, 
and  applied  powder. 

"And  I  hope  Edith  will  be  happy,"  Sibyl  added, 
inciting  more  applications  of  Mrs.  Sheridan's  hand 
kerchief  and  powder. 

"Yes,  yes,"  murmured  the  good  woman.  "We 
mustn't  make  the  worst  of  things." 

"Well,  there  was  something  else  I  had  to  say,  and 
he  wants  you  to  hear  it,  too,"  said  Sibyl.  "We  bet 
ter  go  down,  mother  Sheridan." 

She  led  the  way,  Mrs.  Sheridan  following  obedient 
ly,  but,  when  they  came  to  a  spot  close  by  Bibbs's 
door,  Sibyl  stopped.  "I  want  to  tell  you  about  it 
first,"  she  said,  abruptly.  "It  isn't  a  secret,  of 
course,  in  any  way;  it's  something  the  whole  family 
has  to  know,  and  the  sooner  the  whole  family  knows 
it  the  better.  It's  something  it  wouldn't  be  right 
for  us  all  not  to  understand,  and  of  course  father 
Sheridan  most  of  all.  But  I  want  to  just  kind  of 
go  over  it  first  with  you;  it  '11  kind  of  help  me  to 
see  I  got  it  all  straight.  I  haven't  got  any  reason  for 
saying  it  except  the  good  of  the  family,  and  it's 
nothing  to  me,  one  way  or  the  other,  of  course,  ex 
cept  for  that.  I  oughtn't  to  've  behaved  the  way  I 

291 


THE   TURMOIL 

did  that  night,  and  it  seems  to  me  if  there's  any 
thing  I  can  do  to  help  the  family,  I  ought  to,  because 
it  would  help  show  I  felt  the  right  way.  Well,  what 
I  want  to  do  is  to  tell  this  so's  to  keep  the  family 
from  being  made  a  fool  of.  I  don't  want  to  see  the 
family  just  made  use  of  and  twisted  around  her 
finger  by  somebody  that's  got  no  more  heart  than 
so  much  ice,  and  just  as  sure  to  bring  troubles  in  the 
long  run  as — as  Edith's  mistake  is.  Well,  then,  this 
is  the  way  it  is.  I'll  just  tell  you  how  it  looks  to 
me  and  see  if  it  don't  strike  you  the  same  way." 

Within  the  room,  Bibbs,  much  annoyed,  tapped 
his  ear  with  his  pencil.  He  wished  they  wouldn't 
stand  talking  near  his  door  when  he  was  trying  to 
write.  He  had  just  taken  from  his  trunk  the  manu 
script  of  a  poem  begun  the  preceding  Sunday  after 
noon,  and  he  had  some  ideas  he  wanted  to  fix  upon 
paper  before  they  maliciously  seized  the  first  op 
portunity  to  vanish,  for  they  were  but  gossamer. 
Bibbs  was  pleased  with  the  beginnings  of  his  poem, 
and  if  he  could  carry  it  through  he  meant  to  dare 
greatly  with  it — he  would  venture  it  upon  an  editor. 
For  he  had  his  plan  of  life  now:  his  day  would  be 
of  manual  labor  and  thinking — he  could  think  of  his 
friend  and  he  could  think  in  cadences  for  poems,  to 
the  crashing  of  the  strong  machines — and  if  his  father 
turned  him  out  of  home  and  out  of  the  Works,  he 
would  work  elsewhere  and  live  elsewhere.  His  father 
had  the  right,  and  it  mattered  very  little  to  Bibbs — 
he  faced  the  prospect  of  a  working-man's  lodging- 
house  without  trepidation.  He  could  find  a  wash- 
stand  to  write  upon,  he  thought ;  and  every  evening 
when  he  left  Mary  he  would  write  a  little;  and  he 

292 


THE   TURMOIL 

would  write  on  holidays  and  on  Sundays — on  Sun 
days  in  the  afternoon.  In  a  lodging-house,  at  least 
he  wouldn't  be  interrupted  by  his  sister-in-law's 
choosing  the  immediate  vicinity  of  his  door  for  con 
versations  evidently  important  to  herself,  but  merely 
disturbing  to  him.  He  frowned  plaintively,  wishing 
he  could  think  of  some  polite  way  of  asking  her  to 
go  away.  But,  as  she  went  on,  he  started  violently, 
dropping  manuscript  and  pencil  upon  the  floor. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  heard  it,  mother 
Sheridan,"  she  said,  "but  this  old  Vertrees  house, 
next  door,  has  been  sold  on  foreclosure,  and  all  they 
got  out  of  it  was  an  agreement  that  lets  'em  live 
there  a  little  longer.  Roscoe  told  me,  and  he  says 
he  heard  Mr.  Vertrees  has  been  up  and  down  the 
stieets  more  'n  two  years,  tryin'  to  get  a  job  he  could 
cai  ,;-.  'position,'  and  couldn't  land  it.  You  heard 
anyoing  about  it,  mother  Sheridan?" 

"Well,  I  did  know  they  been  doin'  their  own  house 
work  a  good  while  back,"  said  Mrs.  Sheridan.  "And 
now  they're  doin'  the  cookin',  too." 

Sibyl  sent  forth  a  little  titter  with  a  sharp  edge. 
"I  hope  they  find  something  to  cook!  She  sold  her 
piano  mighty  quick  after  Jim  died!" 

Bibbs  jumped  up.  He  was  trembling  from  head 
to  foot  and  he  was  dizzy — of  all  the  real  things  he 
could  never  have  dreamed  in  his  dream  the  last 
would  have  been  what  he  heard  now.  He  felt  that 
something  incredible  was  happening,  and  that  he 
was  powerless  to  stop  it.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
heavy  blows  were  falling  upon  his  head  and  upon 
Mary's;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  and  Mary  were 
being  struck  and  beaten  physically — and  that  some- 

293 


THE   TURMOIL 

thing  hideous  impended.  He  wanted  to  shout  to 
Sibyl  to  be  silent,  but  he  could  not;  he  could  only 
stand,  swallowing  and  trembling. 

"What  I  think  the  whole  family  ought  to  under 
stand  is  just  this,"  said  Sibyl,  sharply.  "Those  peo 
ple  were  so  hard  up  that  this  Miss  Vertrees  started 
after  Bibbs  before  they  knew  whether  he  was  insane 
or  not!  They'd  got  a  notion  he  might  be,  from  his 
being  in  a  sanitarium,  and  Mrs.  Vertrees  asked  me 
if  he  was  insane,  the  very  first  day  Bibbs  took  the 
daughter  out  auto-riding!"  She  paused  a  moment, 
looking  at  Mrs.  Sheridan,  but  listening  intently. 
There  was  no  sound  from  within  the  room. 

"No!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sheridan. 

"It's  the  truth,"  Sibyl  declared,  loudly.  "Oh,  of 
course  we  were  all  crazy  about  that  girl  at  first.  We 
were  pretty  green  when  we  moved  up  here,  and  we 
thought  she'd  get  us  in — but  it  didn't  take  me  long 
to  read  her!  Her  family  were  down  and  out  when 
it  came  to  money — and  they  had  to  go  after  it,  one 
way  or  another,  somehow!  So  she  started  for  Roscoe ; 
but  she  found  out  pretty  quick  he  was  married,  and 
she  turned  right  around  to  Jim — and  she  landed  him ! 
There's  no  doubt  about  it,  she  had  Jim,  and  if  he'd 
lived  you'd  had  another  daughter-in-law  before  this, 
as  sure  as  I  stand  here  telling  you  the  God's  truth 
about  it !  Well — when  Jim  was  left  in  the  cemetery- 
she  was  waiting  out  there  to  drive  home  with  Bibbs ! 
Jim  wasn't  cold — and  she  didn't  know  whether  Bibbs 
was  insane  or  not,  but  he  was  the  only  one  of  the 
rich  Sheridan  boys  left.  She  had  to  get  him." 

The  texture  of  what  was  the  truth  made  an  even 
fabric  with  what  was  not,  in  Sibyl's  mind;  she  be- 

294 


THE   TURMOIL 

lieved  every  word  that  she  uttered,  and  she  spoke 
with  the  rapidity  and  vehemence  of  fierce  conviction. 

4 'What  I  feel  about  it  is,"  she  said,  "it  oughtn't 
to  be  allowed  to  go  on.  It's  too  mean !  I  like  poor 
Bibbs,  and  I  don't  want  to  see  him  made  such  a  fool 
of,  and  1  don't  want  to  see  the  family  made  such  a 
fool  of!  I  like  poor  Bibbs,  but  if  he'd  only  stop  to 
think  a  minute  himself  he'd  have  to  realize  he  isn't 
the  kind  of  a  man  any  girl  would  be  apt  to  fall  in 
love  with.  He's  better-looking  lately,  maybe,  but 
you  know  how  he  was — just  kind  of  a  long  white  rag 
in  good  clothes.  And  girls  like  men  with  some 
go  to  'em — some  sort  of  dashingness,  anyhow!  No 
body  ever  looked  at  poor  Bibbs  before,  and  neither'd 
she — no,  sir!  not  till  she'd  tried  both  Roscoe  and 
Jim  first !  It  was  only  when  her  and  her  family  got 
desperate  that  she — " 

Bibbs — whiter  than  when  he  came  from  the  san 
itarium — opened  the  door.  He  stepped  across  its 
threshold  and  stood  looking  at  her.  Both  women 
screamed. 

"Oh,  good  heavens!"  cried  Sibyl.  "Were  you  in 
there?  Oh,  I  wouldn  't— "  She  seized  Mrs.  Sheri 
dan's  arm,  pulling  her  toward  the  stairway.  "Come 
on,  mother  Sheridan!"  she  urged,  and  as  the  be 
fuddled  and  confused  lady  obeyed,  Sibyl  left  a 
trail  of  noisy  exclamations :  "  Good  gracious !  Oh,  I 
wouldn't —  Too  \  bad !  I  didn't  dream  he  was 
there!  I  wouldn't  hurt  his  feelings!  Not  for  the 
world!  Of  course  he  had  to  know  some  time! 
But,  good  heavens — " 

She  heard  his  door  close  as  she  and  Mrs.  Sheridan 
reached  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  she  glanced  over 

295 


THE   TURMOIL 

her  shoulder  quickly,  but  Bibbs  was  not  following; 
he  had  gone  back  into  his  room. 

"He — he  looked — oh,  terrible  bad!"  stammered 
Mrs.  Sheridan.  "I— I  wish— " 

"Still,  it's  a  good  deal  better  he  knows  about  it," 
said  Sibyl.  "I  shouldn't  wonder  it  might  turn  out 
the  very  best  thing  could  happened.  Come  on!" 

And  completing  their  descent  to  the  library,  the 
two  made  their  appearance  to  Roscoe  and  his  father. 
Sibyl  at  once  gave  a  full  and  truthful  account  of 
what  had  taken  place,  repeating  her  own  remarks, 
and  omitting  only  the  fact  that  it  was  through  her 
design  that  Bibbs  had  overheard  them. 

"But  as  I  told  mother  Sheridan,"  she  said,  in 
conclusion,  "it  might  turn  out  for  the  very  best 
that  he  did  hear — just  that  way.  Don't  you  think 
so,  father  Sheridan?" 

He  merely  grunted  in  reply,  and  sat  rubbing  the 
thick  hair  on  the  top  of  his  head  with  his  left  hand 
and  looking  at  the  fire.  He  had  given  no  sign  of 
being  impressed  in  any  manner  by  her  exposure  of 
Mary  Vertrees's  character;  but  his  impassivity  did 
not  dismay  Sibyl — it  was  Bibbs  whom  she  desired 
to  impress,  and  she  was  content  in  that  matter. 

"I'm  sure  it  was  all  for  the  best,"  she  said.  "It's 
over  now,  and  he  knows  what  she  is.  In  one  way 
I  think  it  was  lucky,  because,  just  hearing  a  thing 
that  way,  a  person  can  tell  it's  so — and  he  knows  / 
haven't  got  any  ax  to  grind  except  his  own  good  and 
the  good  of  the  family." 

Mrs.  Sheridan  went  nervously  to  the  door  and 
stood  there,  looking  toward  the  stairway.  "I  wish — 
I  wish  I  knew  what  he  was  doin',"  she  said.  "He 

296 


THE   TURMOIL 

did  look  terrible  bad.  It  was  like  something  had 
been  done  to  him  that  was — I  don't  know  what. 
I  never  saw  anybody  look  like  he  did.  He  looked — 
so  queer.  It  was  like  you'd — "  She  called  down  the 
hall,  "George!" 

"Yes'm?" 

"Were  you  up  in  Mr.  Bibbs's  room  just  now?" 

"Yes'm.  He  ring  bell;  tole  me  make  him  fiah 
in  his  grate.  I  done  buil'  him  nice  fiah.  I  reckon 
he  ain'  feelin'  so  well.  Yes'm."  He  departed. 

"What  do  you  expect  he  wants  a  fire  for?"  she 
asked,  turning  toward  her  husband.  "The  house  is 
warm  as  can  be.  I  do  wish  I — " 

"Oh,  quit  frettin'!"  said  Sheridan. 

"Well,  I — I  kind  o'  wish  you  hadn't  said  anything, 
Sibyl.  I  know  you  meant  it  for  the  best  and  all,  but 
I  don't  believe  it  would  been  so  much  harm  if — " 

"Mother  Sheridan,  you  don't  mean  you  want 
that  kind  of  a  girl  in  the  family?  Why,  she— 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  the  troubled  wom 
an  quavered.  "If  he  liked  her  it  seems  kind  of  a 
pity  to  spoil  it.  He's  so  queer,  and  he  hasn't  ever 
taken  much  enjoyment.  And  besides,  I  believe  the 
way  it  was,  there  was  more  chance  of  him  bein' 
willin'  to  do  what  papa  wants  him  to.  If  she  wants 
to  marry  him — " 

Sheridan  interrupted  her  with  a  hooting  laugh. 
"She  don't!"  he  said.  "You're  barkin'  up  the 
wrong  tree,  Sibyl.  She  ain't  that  kind  of  a  girl." 

"But,  father  Sheridan,  didn't  she- 
He  cut  her  short.  "That's  enough.  You  may 
mean  all  right,  but  you  guess  wrong.  So  do  you, 


mamma." 


297 


THE   TURMOIL 

Sibyl  cried  out,  "Oh!  But  just  look  how  she  ran 
after  Jim—" 

"She  did  not,"  he  said,  curtly.  "She  wouldn't 
take  Jim.  She  turned  him  down  cold." 

"But  that's  impossi— " 

"It's  not.    I  know  she  did." 

Sibyl  looked  flatly  incredulous. 

"And  you  needn't  worry,"  he  said,  turning  to  his 
wife.  "This  won't  have  any  effect  on  your  idea, 
because  there  wasn't  any  sense  to  it,  anyhow. 
D'  you  think  she'd  be  very  likely  to  take  Bibbs — 
after  she  wouldn't  take  Jim?  She's  a  good-hearted 
girl,  and  she  lets  Bibbs  come  to  see  her,  but  if  she'd 
ever  given  him  one  sign  of  encouragement  the  way 
you  women  think,  he  wouldn't  of  acted  the  stubborn 
fool  he  has — he'd  'a'  been  at  me  long  ago,  beggin' 
me  for  some  kind  of  a  job  he  could  support  a  wife 
on.  There's  nothin'  in  it — and  I've  got  the  same 
old  fight  with  him  on  my  hands  I've  had  all  his* 
life — and  the  Lord  knows  what  he  won't  do  to  balk 
me!  What's  happened  now  '11  probably  only  make 
him  twice  as  stubborn,  but — " 

"9Sh!"  Mrs.  Sheridan,  still  in  the  doorway,  lifted 
her  hand.  ' '  That's  his  step — he's  comin'  down-stairs. " 
She  shrank  away  from  the  door  as  if  she  feared  to 
have  Bibbs  see  her.  "I — I  wonder — "  she  said,  al 
most  in  a  whisper — ' '  I  wonder  what  he's  goin' — to  do. ' ' 

Her  timorousness  had  its  effect  upon  the  others. 
Sheridan  rose,  frowning,  but  remained  standing  be 
side  his  chair;  and  Roscoe  moved  toward  Sibyl, 
who  stared  uneasily  at  the  open  doorway.  They  lis 
tened  as  the  slow  steps  descended  the  stairs  and  came 
toward  the  library. 

298 


THE  TURMOIL 

Bibbs  stopped  upon  the  threshold,  and  with  sick 
and  haggard  eyes  looked  slowly  from  one  to  the 
other  until  at  last  his  gaze  rested  upon  his  father. 
Then  he  came  and  stood  before  him. 

"I'm  sorry  youVe  had  so  much  trouble  with 
me,"  he  said,  gently.  "You  won't,  any  more.  I'll 
take  the  job  you  offered  me." 

Sheridan  did  not  speak — he  stared,  astounded  and 
incredulous;  and  Bibbs  had  left  the  room  before 
any  of  its  occupants  uttered  a  sound,  though  he 
went  as  slowly  as  he  came.  Mrs.  Sheridan  was  the 
first  to  move.  She  went  nervously  back  to  the  door 
way,  and  then  out  into  the  hall.  Bibbs  had  gone 
from  the  house. 

Bibbs's  mother  had  a  feeling  about  him  then 
that  she  had  never  known  before;  it  was  indefinite 
and  vague,  but  very  poignant — something  in  her 
mourned  for  him  uncomprehendingly.  She  felt  that 
an  awful  thing  had  been  done  to  him,  though  she 
did  not  know  what  it  was.  She  went  up  to  his  room. 

The  fire  George  had  built  for  him  was  almost 
smothered  under  thick,  charred  ashes  of  paper.  The 
lid  of  his  trunk  stood  open,  and  the  large  upper  tray, 
which  she  remembered  to  have  seen  full  of  papers 
and  note-books,  was  empty.  And  somehow  she  un 
derstood  that  Bibbs  had  given  up  the  mysterious 
vocation  he  had  hoped  to  follow — and  that  he  had 
given  it  up  for  ever.  She  thought  it  was  the  wisest 
thing  he  could  have  done — and  yet,  for  an  unknown 
reason,  she  sat  upon  the  bed  and  wept  a  little 
before  she  went  down-stairs. 

So  Sheridan  had  his  way  with  Bibbs,  all  through. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

AS  Bibbs  came  out  of  the  New  House,  a  Sunday 
**•  trio  was  in  course  of  passage  upon  the  side 
walk:  an  ample  young  woman,  placid  of  face;  a 
black-clad,  thin  young  man,  whose  expression  was 
one  of  habitual  anxiety,  habitual  wariness  and 
habitual  eagerness.  He  propelled  a  perambulator 
containing  the  third — and  all  three  were  newty 
cleaned,  Sundayfied,  and  made  fit  to  dine  with  the 
wife's  relatives. 

"How'd  you  like  for  me  to  be  that  young  fella, 
mamma?"  the  husband  whispered.  "He's  one  of 
the  sons,  and  there  ain't  but  two  left  now." 

The  wife  stared  curiously  at  Bibbs.  "Well,  I  don't 
know,"  she  returned.  "He  looks  to  me  like  he  had 
his  own  troubles." 

"I  expect  he  has,  like  anybody  else,"  said  thA 
young  husband,  "but  I  guess  we  could  stand  a  good 
deal  if  we  had  his  money." 

"Well,  maybe,  if  you  keep  on  the  way  you  been, 
baby  '11  be  as  well  fixed  as  the  Sheridans.  You  can't 
tell."  She  glanced  back  at  Bibbs,  who  had  turned 
north.  "He  walks  kind  of  slow  and  stooped  over, 
like." 

"So  much  money  in  his  pockets  it  makes  him 
sag,  I  guess,"  said  the  young  husband,  with  bittef  I 
admiration. 

300 


THE   TURMOIL 

Mary,  happening  to  glance  from  a  window,  saw 
Bibbs  coming,  and  she  started,  clasping  her  hands 
together  in  a  sudden  alarm.  She  met  him  at  the 
door. 

"Bibbs!"  she  cried.  "What  is  the  matter?  I 
saw  something  was  terribly  wrong  when  I —  You 
look — "  She  paused,  and  he  came  in,  not  lifting 
his  eyes  to  hers.  Always  when  he  crossed  that 
threshold  he  had  come  with  his  head  up  and  his 
wistful  gaze  seeking  hers.  "Ah,  poor  boy!"  she 
said,  with  a  gesture  of  understanding  and  pity.  "I 
know  what  it  is!" 

He  followed  her  into  the  room  where  they  always 
sat,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"You  needn't  tell  me,"  she  said.  "They've  made 
you  give  up.  Your  father's  won — you're  going  to 
do  what  he  wants.  You've  given  up." 

Still  without  looking  at  her,  he  inclined  his  head 
in  affirmation. 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  compassion,  and  came  and 
sat  near  him.  " Bibbs,"  she  said,  "I  can  be  glad 
of  one  thing,  though  it's  selfish.  I  can  be  glad  you 
came  straight  to  me.  It's  more  to  me  than  even  if 
you'd  come  because  you  were  happy."  She  did  not 
speak  again  for  a  little  while;  then  she  said:  "Bibbs 
— dear — could  you  tell  me  about  it?  Do  you  want 
to?" 

Still  he  did  not  look  up,  but  in  a  voice,  shaken 
and  husky  he  asked  her  a  question  so  grotesque 
that  at  first  she  thought  she  had  misunderstood 
his  words. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "could  you  marry  me?" 

"What  did  you  say,  Bibbs?"  she  askejd,  quietly. 
301 


THE  TURMOIL 

His  tone  and  attitude  did  not  change.  "Will  you 
marry  me?" 

Both  of  her  hands  leaped  to  her  cheeks — she  grew 
red  and  then  white.  She  rose  slowly  and  moved 
backward  from  him,  staring  at  him,  at  first  incred 
ulously,  then  with  an  intense  perplexity  more  and 
more  luminous  in  her  wide  eyes;  it  was  like  a  spoken 
question.  The  room  filled  with  strangeness  in  the 
long  silence — the  two  were  so  strange  to  each  other* 
At  last  she  said: 

"What  made  you  say  that?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

" Bibbs,  look  at  me!"  Her  voice  was  loud  and 
clear.  "What  made  you  say  that?  Look  at  me!" 

He  could  not  look  at  her,  and  he  could  not  speak. 

"What  was  it  that  made  you?"  she  said.  "I  want 
you  to  tell  me." 

She  went  closer  to  him,  her  eyes  ever  brighter 
and  wider  with  that  intensity  of  wonder.  "You've 
given  up — to  your  father,"  she  said,  slowly,  "and 
then  you  came  to  ask  me — "  She  broke  off.  "Bibbs, 
do  you  want  me  to  marry  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  just  audibly. 

"No!"  she  cried.  "You  do  not.  Then  what 
made  you  ask  me?  What  is  it  that's  happened?" 

"Nothing." 

"Wait,"  she  said.  "Let  me  think.  It's  some 
thing  that  happened  since  our  walk  this  morning — 
yes,  since  you  left  me  at  noon.  Something  happened 
that — "  She  stopped  abruptly,  with  a  tremulous 
murmur  of  amazement  and  dawning  comprehen 
sion.  She  remembered  that  Sibyl  had  gone  to  the 
New  House. 

302 


THE    TURMOIL 

Bibbs  swallowed  painfully  and  contrived  to  say, 
"I  do — I  do  want  you  to — marry  me,  if — if— you 
could." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  slowly  shook  her  head. 
"Bibbs,  do  you — "  Her  voice  was  as  unsteady  as 
his — little  more  than  a  whisper.  "Do  you  think  I'm 
— in  love  with  you?" 

"No,"  he  said. 

Somewhere  in  the  still  air  of  the  room  there 
was  a  whispered  word;  it  did  not  seem  to  come 
from  Mary's  parted  lips,  but  he  was  aware  of  it. 
"Why?"  ' 

"I've  had  nothing  but  dreams,"  Bibbs  said,  deso 
lately,  "but  they  weren't  like  that.  Sibyl  said  no 
girl  could  care  about  me."  He  smiled  faintly, 
though  still  he  did  not  look  at  Mary.  "And  when 
I  first  came  home  Edith  told  me  Sibyl  was  so  anx 
ious  to  marry  that  she'd  have  married  me.  She 
meant  it  to  express  Sibyl's  extremity,  you  see.  But 
I  hardly  needed  either  of  them  to  tell  me.  I  hadn't 
thought  of  myself  as — well,  not  as  particularly  cap 
tivating!" 

Oddly  enough,  Mary's  pallor  changed  to  an  angry 
flush.  "Those  two!"  she  exclaimed,  sharply;  and 
then,  with  thoroughgoing  contempt:  "Lamhorn! 
That's  like  them!"  She  turned  away,  went  to  the 
bare  little  black  mantel,  and  stood  leaning  upon 
it.  Presently  she  asked:  "When  did  Mrs.  Roscoe 
Sheridan  say  that  'no  girl'  could  care  about  you?" 

"To-day." 

Mary  drew  a  deep  breath.  "I  think  I'm  begin 
ning  to  understand — a  little."  She  bit  her  lip; 
there  was  anger  in  good  truth  in  her  eyes  and  in  her 
20  303 


THE  TURMOIL 

voice.  "Answer  me  once  more,"  she  said.  "Bibbs, 
do  you  know  now  why  I  stopped  wearing  my  furs?" 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  sol  Your  sister-in-law  told  you,  didn't 
she?" 

"I—    I  heard  her  say—" 

"I  think  I  know  what  happened,  now."  Mary's 
breath  came  fast  and  her  voice  shook,  but  she  spoke 
rapidly.  "You  *  heard  her  say*  more  than  that. 
You  'heard  her  say*  that  we  were  bitterly  poor, 
and  on  that  account  I  tried  first  to  marry  your 
brother — and  then — "  But  now  she  faltered,  and 
it  was  only  after  a  convulsive  effort  that  she  was 
able  to  go  on.  "And  then — that  I  tried  to  marry — 
you!  You  'heard  her  say*  that — and  you  believe 
that  I  don't  care  for  you  and  that  'no  girl*  could 
care  for  you — but  you  think  I  am  in  such  an  'ex 
tremity,'  as  Sibyl  was — that  you —  And  so,  not 
wanting  me,  and  believing  that  I  could  not  want 
you — except  for  my  'extremity* — you  took  your 
father's  offer  and  then  came  to  ask  me — to  marry 
you!  What  had  I  shown  you  of  myself  that  could 
make  you — " 

Suddenly  she  sank  down,  kneeling,  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  arms  upon  the  lap  of  JSL  chair,  tears 
overwhelming  her. 

"Mary,  Mary!"  he  cried,  helplessly.  "Oh  «0— - 
you — you  don't  understand." 

"I  do,  though!"  she  sobbed.     "I  do!" 

He  came  and  stood  beside  her.  "You  kill  me!" 
he  said.  "I  can't  make  it  plain.  From  the  first 
of  your  loveliness  to  me,  I  was  all  self.  It  was  al 
ways  you  that  gave  and  I  that  took.  I  was  the  de- 

3°4 


THE  TURMOIL 

pendent— I  did  nothing  but  lean  on  you.  We  al 
ways  talked  of  me,  not  of  you.  It  was  all  about  my 
idiotic  distresses  and  troubles.  I  thought  of  you 
as  a  kind  of  wonderful  being  that  had  no  mor 
tal  or  human  suffering  except  by  sympathy.  You 
seemed  to  lean  down — out  of  a  rosy  cloud— to  be 
kind  to  me.  I  never  dreamed  /  could  do  anything 
for  you!  I  never  dreamed  you  could  need  anything 
to  be  done  for  you  by  anybody.  And  to-day  I  heard 
that— that  you—" 

"You  heard  that  I  needed  to  marry — some  one 
— anybody — with  money,"  she  sobbed.  "And  you 
thought  we  were  so — so  desperate — you  believed 
that  I  had—" 

"No!"  he  said,  quickly.  "I  didn't  believe  you'd 
done  one  kind  thing  for  me — for  that.  No,  no,  no! 
I  knew  you'd  never  thought  of  me  except  generously — 
to  give.  I  said  I  couldn't  make  it  plain!"  he  cried, 
despairingly. 

"Wait!"  She  lifted  her  head  and  extended  her 
hands  to  him  unconsciously,  like  a  child.  "Help 
me  up,  Bibbs."  Then,  when  she  was  once  more 
upon  her  feet,  she  wiped  her  eyes  and  smiled  upon 
him  ruefully  and  faintly,  but  reassuringly,  as  if  to 
tell  him,  in  that  way,  that  she  knew  he  had  not 
meant  to  hurt  her.  And  that  smile  of  hers,  so 
lamentable  but  so  faithfully  friendly,  misted  his 
own  eyes,  for  his  shamefacedness  lowered  them  no 
more. 

"Let  me  tell  you  what  you  want  to  tell  me,"  she 
said.  "You  can't,  because  you  can't  put  it  into 
words — they  are  too  humiliating  for  me  and  you're 
too  gentle  to  say  them.  Tell  me,  though,  isn't  it  true? 

305 


THE  TURMOIL 

You  didn't  believe  that  I'd  tried  to  make  you  fall  in 
love  with  me — " 

"Never!    Never  for  an  instant!" 

"You  didn't  believe  I'd  tried  to  make  you  want 
to  marry  me — " 

"No,  no,  no!" 

"I  believe  it,  Bibbs.  You  thought  that  I  was 
fond  of  you;  you  knew  I  cared  for  you— -but  you 
didn't  think  I  might  be — in  love  with  you.  But 
you  thought  that  I  might  marry  you  without  being 
in  love  with  you  because  you  did  believe  I  had  tried 
to  marry  your  brother,  and — " 

"Mary,  I  only  knew — for  the  first  time — that  you 
— that  you  were — " 

"Were  desperately  poor,"  she  said.  "You  can't 
even  say  that!  Bibbs,  it  was  true:  I  did  try  to 
make  Jim  want  to  marry  me.  I  did!"  And  she 
sank  down  into  the  chair,  weeping  bitterly  again. 
Bibbs  was  agonized. 

"Mary,"  he  groaned,  "I  didn't  know  you  could 
cry!" 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "Listen  till  I  get  through — 
I  want  you  to  understand.  We  were  poor,  and  we 
weren't  fitted  to  be.  We  never  had  been,  and  we 
didn't  know  what  to  do.  We'd  been  almost  rich; 
there  was  plenty,  but  my  father  wanted  to  take 
advantage  of  the  growth  of  the  town;  he  wanted  to 
be  richer,  but  instead— well,  just  about  the  time 
your  father  finished  building  next  door  we  found 
we  hadn't  anything.  People  say  that,  sometimes, 
meaning  that  they  haven't  anything  in  comparison 
with  other  people  of  their  own  kind,  but  we  really 
hadn't  anything — we  hadn't  anything  at  all,  Bibbs  i 

306 


THE  TURMOIL 

And  we  couldn't  do  anything.  You  might  wonder 
why  I  didn't  'try  to  be  a  stenographer* — and  I 
wonder  myself  why,  when  a  family  loses  its  money, 
people  always  say  the  daughters  'ought  to  go  and 
be  stenographers.'  It's  curious! — as  if  a  wave  of 
the  hand  made  you  into  a  stenographer.  No,  I'd 
been  raised  to  be  either  married  comfortably  or  a 
well-to-do  old  maid,  if  I  chose  not  to  marry.  The 
poverty  came  on  slowly,  Bibbs,  but  at  last  it  was  all 
there—and  I  didn't  know  how  to  be  a  stenographer. 
I  didn't  know  how  to  be  anything  except  a  well- 
to-do  old  maid  or  somebody's  wife — and  I  couldn't 
be  a  well-to-do  old  maid.  Then,  Bibbs,  I  did  what 
I'd  been  raised  to  know  how  to  do.  I  went  out  to 
be  fascinating  and  be  married.  I  did  it  openly,  at 
least,  and  with  a  kind  of  decent  honesty.  I  told 
your  brother  I  had  meant  to  fascinate  him  and 
that  I  was  not  in  love  with  him,  but  I  let  him 
think  that  perhaps  I  meant  to  marry  him.  I  think 
I  did  mean  to  marry  him.  I  had  never  cared  for  any 
body,  and  I  thought  it  might  be  there  really  wasn't 
anything  more  than  a  kind  of  excited  fondness. 
I  can't  be  sure,  but  I  think  that  though  I  did  mean 
to  marry  him  I  never  should  have  done  it,  because 
that  sort  of  a  marriage  is — it's  sacrilege — something 
would  have  stopped  me.  Something  did  stop  me; 
it  was  your  sister-in-law,  Sibyl.  She  meant  no  harm 
— but  she  was  horrible,  and  she  put  what  I  was  doing 
into  such  horrible  words — and  they  were  the  truth 
— oh!  I  saw  myself!  She  was  proposing  a  misera 
ble  compact  with  me — and  I  couldn't  breathe  the  air 
of  the  same  room  with  her,  though  I'd  so  cheapened 
myself  she  had  a  right  to  assume  that  I  would. 

307 


THE   TURMOIL 

But  I  couldn't!  I  left  her,  and  I  wrote  to  your 
brother — just  a  quick  scrawl.  I  told  him  just  what 
I'd  done;  I  asked  his  pardon,  and  I  said  I  would 
not  marry  him.  I  posted  the  letter,  but  he  never 
got  it.  That  was  the  afternoon  he  was  killed.  That's 
all,  Bibbs.  Now  you  know  what  I  did  —  and  you 
know — me!"  She  pressed  her  clenched  hands  tight 
ly  against  her  eyes,  leaning  far  forward,  her  head 
bowed  before  him. 

Bibbs  had  forgotten  himself  long  ago;  his  heart 
broke  for  her.  "Couldn't  you—  Isn't*  there— 
Won't  you — "  he  stammered.  "Mary,  I'm  going 
with  father.  Isn't  there  some  way  you  could  use 
the  money  without — without — " 

She  gave  a  choked  little  laugh. 

"You  gave  me  something  to  live  for,"  he  said. 
"You  kept  me  alive,  I  think — and  I've  hurt  you 
like  this!" 

"Not  you— oh  no!" 

"You  could  forgive  me,  Mary?" 

"Oh,  a  thousand  times!"  Her  right  hand  went 
out  in  a  faltering  gesture,  and  just  touched  his  own 
for  an  instant.  "But  there's  nothing  to  forgive." 

"And  you  can't — you  can't — " 

"Can't  what,  Bibbs?" 

"You  couldn't- 

" Marry  you?"  she  said  for  him. 

"Yes." 

"No,  no,  no!"  She  sprang  up,  facing  him,  and, 
without  knowing  what  she  did,  she  set  her  hands 
upon  his  breast,  pushing  him  back  from  her  a  little. 
"I  can't,  I  can't!  Don't  you  see?" 

"Mary—" 

308 


THE   TURMOIL 

"No,  no!  And  you  must  go  now,  Bibbs;  I  can't 
bear  any  more — please — " 

"Mary— " 

"Never,  never,  never!"  she  cried,  in  a  passion  of 
tears.  "You  mustn't  come  any  more.  I  can't  see 
you,  dear!  Never,  never,  never!" 

Somehow,  in  helpless,  stumbling  obedience  to  her 
beseeching  gesture,  he  got  himself  to  the  door  and 
out  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

SIBYL  and  Roscoe  were  upon  the  point  of  leaving 
when  Bibbs  returned  to  the  New  House.  He 
went  straight  to  Sibyl  and  spoke  to  her  quietly,  but 
so  that  the  others  might  hear. 

"When  yo^i  said  that  if  I'd  stop  to  think,  I'd 
realize  that  no  one  would  be  apt  to  care  enough  about 
me  to  marry  me,  you  were  right,"  he  said.  "I 
thought  perhaps  you  weren't,  and  so  I  asked  Miss 
Vertrees  to  marry  me.  It  proved  what  you  said 
of  me,  and  disproved  what  you  said  of  her.  She 
refused." 

And,  having  thus  spoken,  he  quitted  the  room  as 
straightforwardly  as  he  had  entered  it. 

"He's  so  queer!"  Mrs.  Sheridan  gasped.  "Who 
on  earth  would  thought  of  his  doin'  that?" 

"I  told  you,"  said  her  husband,  grimly. 

"You  didn't  tell  us  he'd  go  over  there  and — " 

"I  told  you  she  wouldn't  have  him.  I  told  you 
she  wouldn't  have  Jim,  didn't  I?" 

Sibyl  was  altogether  taken  aback.  "Do  you  sup 
pose  it's  true?  Do  you  suppose  she  wouldn't?" 

"He  didn't  look  exactly  like  a  young  man  that 
had  just  got  things  fixed  up  fine  with  his  girl,"  said 
Sheridan.  "Not  to  me,  he  didn't!" 

"But  why  would—" 

"I  told  you,"  he  interrupted,  angrily,  "she  ain't 

310 


THE   TURMOIL 

that  kind  of  a  girl!  If  you  got  to  have  proof,  well, 
I'll  tell  you  and  get  it  over  with,  though  I'd  pretty 
near  just  as  soon  not  have  to  talk  a  whole  lot  about 
my  dead  boy's  private  affairs.  She  wrote  to  Jim 
she  couldn't  take  him,  and  it  was  a  good,  straight 
letter,  too.  It  came  to  Jim's  office;  he  never  saw  it. 
She  wrote  it  the  afternoon  he  was  hurt." 

"I  remember  I  saw  her  put  a  letter  in  the  mail-box 
that  afternoon,"  said  Roscoe.  "Don't  you  remem 
ber,  Sibyl?  I  told  you  about  it — I  was  waiting  for 
you  while  you  were  in  there  so  long  talking  to  her 
mother.  It  was  just  before  we  saw  that  something 
was  wrong  over  here,  and  Edith  came  and  called  me." 

Sibyl  shook  her  head,  but  she  remembered.  And 
she  was  not  cast  down,  for,  although  some  remnants 
of  perplexity  were  left  in  her  eyes,  they  were  dimmed 
by  an  increasing  glow  of  triumph;  and  she  departed 
— after  some  further  fragmentary  discourse — visibly 
elated.  After  all,  the  guilty  had  not  been  exalted; 
and  she  perceived  vaguely,  but  none  the  less  surely, 
that  her  injury  had  been  copiously  avenged.  She 
bestowed  a  contented  glance  upon  the  old  house 
with  the  cupola,  as  she  and  Roscoe  crossed  the 
street. 

When  they  had  gone,  Mrs.  Sheridan  indulged  in 
reverie,  but  after  a  while  she  said,  uneasily,  "Papa, 
you  think  it  would  be  any  use  to  tell  Bibbs  about 
that  letter?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  walking  moodily 
to  the  window.  "I  been  thinkin'  about  it."  He 
came  to  a  decision.  "I  reckon  I  will."  And  he 
went  up  to  Bibbs's  room. 

"Well,  you  goin'  back  on  what  you  said?"  he 


THE   TURMOIL 

inquired,  brusquely,  as  he  opened  the  door.  "You 
goin'  to  take  it  back  and  lay  down  on  me  again?" 

"No,"  said  Bibbs. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  didn't  have  any  call  to  accuse 
you  of  that.  I  don't  know  as  you  ever  did  go  back 
on  anything  you  said,  exactly,  though  the  Lord 
knows  you've  laid  down  on  me  enough.  You  certain 
ly  have!"  Sheridan  was  baffled.  This  was  not  what 
he  wished  to  say,  but  his  words  were  unmanageable; 
he  found  himself  unable  to  control  them,  and  his 
querulous  abuse  went  on  in  spite  of  him.  "I  can't 
say  I  expect  much  of  you — not  from  the  way  you 
always  been,  up  to  now — unless  you  turn  over  a 
new  leaf,  and  I  don't  see  any  encouragement  to 
think  you're  goin'  to  do  that !  If  you  go  down  there 
and  show  a  spark  o'  real  git-up,  I  reckon  the  whole 
office  '11  fall  in  a  faint.  But  if  you're  ever  goin'  to 
show  any,  you  better  begin  right  at  the  beginning 
and  begin  to  show  it  to-morrow." 

"Yes— I'll  try." 

"You  better,  if  it's  in  you!"  Sheridan  was  sheerly 
nonplussed.  He  had  always  been  able  to  say  what 
ever  he  wished  to  say,  but  his  tongue  seemed  be 
witched.  He  had  come  to  tell  Bibbs  about  Mary's 
letter,  and  to  his  own  angry  astonishment  he  found 
it  impossible  to  do  anything  except  to  scold  like 
a  drudge-driver.  '  "You  better  come  down  there 
with  your  mind  made  up  to  hustle  harder  than  the 
hardest  workin'-man  that's  under  you,  or  you'll  not 
get  on  very  good  with  me,  I  tell  you!  The  way 
to  get  ahead — and  you  better  set  it  down  in  your 
books — the  way  to  get  ahead  is  to  do  ten  times 
the  work  of  the  hardest  worker  that  works  for  you.. 


"BUT  YOU   DON'T  KNOW  WHAT  WORK  is,  YET" 


THE   TURMOIL 

But  you  don't  know  what  work  is,  yet.  All  you've 
ever  done  was  just  stand  around  and  feed  a  machine 
a  child  could  handle,  and  then  come  home  and  take 
a  bath  and  go  callin'.  I  tell  you  you're  up  against 
a  mighty  different  proposition  now,  and  if  you're 
worth  your  salt — and  you  never  showed  any  signs 
of  it  yet — not  any  signs  that  stuck  out  enough  to 
bang  somebody  on  the  head  and  make  'em  sit  up  and 
take  notice — well,  I  want  to  say,  right  here  and  now 
— and  you  better  listen,  because  I  want  to  say  just 
what  I  do  say.  I  say — " 

He  meandered  to  a  full  stop.  His  mouth  hung 
open,  and  his  mind  was  a  hopeless  blank. 

Bibbs  looked  up  patiently — an  old,  old  look. 
"Yes,  father;  I'm  listening." 

"That's  all,"  said  Sheridan,  frowning  heavily. 
"That's  all  I  came  to  say,  and  you  better  see  't 
you  remember  it!" 

He  shook  his  head  warningly,  and  went  out,  clos 
ing  the  door  behind  him  with  a  crash.  However, 
no  sound  of  footsteps  indicated  his  departure.  He 
stopped  just  outside  the  door,  and  stood  there  a 
minute  or  more.  Then  abruptly  he  turned  the  knob 
and  exhibited  to  his  son  a  forehead  liberally  covered 
with  perspiration. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  crossly.  "That  girl  over 
yonder  wrote  Jim  a  letter — " 

"I  know,"  said  Bibbs.     "She  told  me." 

"Well,  I  thought  you  needn't  feel  so  much  upset 
about  it — "  The  door  closed  on  his  voice  as  he 
withdrew,  but  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence  was 
nevertheless  audible — "if  you  knew  she  wouldn't 
have  Jim,  either." 

313  / 


THE   TURMOIL 

And  he  stamped  his  way  down-stairs  to  tell  his 
wife  to  quit  her  frettin'  and  not  bother  him  with 
any  more  fool's  errands.  She  was  about  to  inquire 
what  Bibbs  "said,"  but  after  a  second  thought  she 
decided  not  to  speak  at  all.  She  merely  murmured 
a  wordless  assent,  and  verbal  communication  was  giv 
en  over  between  them  for  the  rest  of  that  afternoon. 

Bibbs  and  his  father  were  gone  when  Mrs.  Sheri 
dan  woke,  the  next  morning,  and  she  had  a  dreary 
day.  She  missed  Edith  woefully,  and  she  worried 
about  what  might  be  taking  place  in  the  Sheridan 
Building.  She  felt  that  everything  depended  on  how 
Bibbs  "took  hold,"  and  upon  her  husband's  return 
in  the  evening  she  seized  upon  the  first  opportunity 
to  ask  him  how  things  had  gone.  He  was  non 
committal.  What  could  anybody  tell  by  the  first 
day?  He'd  seen  plenty  go  at  things  well  enough 
right  at  the  start  and  then  blow  up.  Pretty  near 
anybody  could  show  up  fair  the  first  day  or  so. 
There  was  a  big  job  ahead.  This  material,  such  as 
it  was — Bibbs,  in  fact — had  to  be  broken  in  to  han 
dling  the  work  Roscoe  had  done;  and  then,  at  least 
as  an  overseer,  he  must  take  Jim's  position  in  the 
Realty  Company  as  well.  He  told  her  to  ask  him 
again  in  a  month. 

But  during  the  course  of  dinner  she  gathered 
from  some  disjointed  remarks  of  his  that  he  and 
Bibbs  had  lunched  together  at  the  small  restaurant 
where  it  had  been  Sheridan's  custom  to  lunch  with 
Jim,  and  she  took  this  to  be  an  encouraging  sign. 
Bibbs  went  to  his  room  as  soon  as  they  left  the 
table,  and  her  husband  was  not  communicative 
after  reading  his  paper. 


THE   TURMOIL 

She  became  an  anxious  spectator  of  Bibbs's  prog 
ress  as  a  man  of  business,  although  it  was  a  progress 
she  could  glimpse  but  dimly  and  only  in  the  eve 
ning,  through  his  remarks  and  his  father's  at  dinner. 
Usually  Bibbs  was  silent,  except  when  directly  ad 
dressed,  but  on  the  first  evening  of  the  third  week 
of  his  new  career  he  offered  an  opinion  which  had 
apparently  been  the  subject  of  previous  argument. 

"I'd  like  you  to  understand  just  what  I  meant 
about  those  storage-rooms,  father,"  he  said,  as  Jack 
son  placed  his  coffee  before  him.  "Abercrombie 
agreed  with  me,  but  you  wouldn't  listen  to  him." 

"You  can  talk,  if  you  want  to,  and  I'll  listen," 
Sheridan  returned,  "but  you  can't  show  me  that  Jim 
ever  took  up  with  a  bad  thing.  The  roof  fell  be 
cause  it  hadn't  had  time  to  settle  and  on  account 
of  weather  conditions.  I  want  that  building  put  just 
the  way  Jim  planned  it." 

"You  can't  have  it,"  said  Bibbs.  "You  can't, 
because  Jim  planned  for  the  building  to  stand  up, 
and  it  won't  do  it.  The  other  one — the  one  that 
didn't  fall — is  so  shot  with  cracks  we  haven't  dared 
use  it  for  storage.  It  won't  stand  weight.  There's 
only  one  thing  to  do:  get  both  buildings  down  as 
quickly  as  we  can,  and  build  over.  Brick's  the  best 
and  cheapest  in  the  long  run  for  that  type." 

Sheridan  looked  sarcastic.  "Fine!  What  we  goin' 
to  do  for  storage-rooms  while  we're  waitin'  for  those 
few  bricks  to  be  laid?" 

"Rent,"  Bibbs  returned,  promptly.  "We'll  lose 
money  if  we  don't  rent,  anyhow — they  were  waiting 
so  long  for  you  to  give  the  warehouse  matter  your 
attention  after  the  roof  fell.  You  don't  know  what 


THE   TURMOIL 

an  amount  of  stuff  they've  got  piled  up  on  us  over 
there.  We'd  have  to  rent  until  we  could  patch  up 
those  process  perils  —  and  the  Krivitch  Manufac 
turing  Company's  plant  is  empty,  right  across  the 
street.  I  took  an  option  on  it  for  us  this  morning." 

Sheridan's  expression  was  queer.  "Look  here!" 
he  said,  sharply.  "Did  you  go  and  do  that  without 
consulting  me?" 

"It  didn't  cost  anything,"  said  Bibbs.  "It's  only 
until  to-morrow  afternoon  at  two  o'clock.  I  under 
took  to  convince  you  before  then." 

"Oh,  you  did?"  Sheridan's  tone  was  sardonic. 
"Well,  just  suppose  you  couldn't  convince  me." 

"I  can,  though — and  I  intend  to,"  said  Bibbs, 
quietly.  "I  don't  think  you  understand  the  condi 
tion  of  those  buildings  you  want  patched  up." 

"Now,  see  here,"  said  Sheridan,  with  slow  em 
phasis;  "suppose  I  had  my  mind  set  about  this. 
Jim  thought  they'd  stand,  and  suppose  it  was — 
well,  kind  of  a  matter  of  sentiment  with  me  to 
prove  he  was  right." 

Bibbs  looked  at  him  compassionately.  "I'm 
sorry  if  you  have  a  sentiment  about  it,  father,"  he 
said.  "But  whether  you  have  or  not  can't  make  a 
difference.  You'll  get  other  people  hurt  if  you  trust 
that  process,  and  that  won't  do.  And  if  you  want 
a  monument  to  Jim,  at  least  you  want  one  that  will 
stand.  Besides,  I  don't  think  you  can  reasonably 
defend  sentiment  in  this  particular  kind  of  affair." 

"Oh,  you  don't?" 

"No,  but  I'm  sorry  you  didn't  tell  me  you  felt  it." 

Sheridan  was  puzzled  by  his  sort's  tone.  "Why 
are  you  'sorry'?"  he  asked,  curiously, 

316 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Because  I  had  the  building  inspector  up  there, 
this  noon,"  said  Bibbs,  "and  I  had  him  condemn 
both  those  buildings." 

"What?" 

"He'd  been  afraid  to  do  it  before,  until  he  heard 
from  us — afraid  you'd  see  he  lost  his  job.     But  he' 
can't  un-condemn  them — they've  got  to  come  down 
now." 

Sheridan  gave  him  a  long  and  piercing  stare  from 
beneath  lowered  brows.  Finally  he  said,  "How  long 
did  they  give  you  on  that  option  to  convince 
me?" 

"Until  two  o'clock  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"All  right,"  said  Sheridan,  not  relaxing.  "I'm 
convinced." 

Bibbs  jumped  up.  "I  thought  you  would  be. 
I'll  telephone  the  Krivitch  agent.  He  gave  me  the 
option  until  to-morrow,  but  I  told  him  I'd  settle 
it  this  evening." 

Sheridan  gazed  after  him  as  he  left  the  room,  and 
then,  though  his  expression  did  not  alter  in  the 
slightest,  a  sound  came  from  him  that  startled  his 
wife.  It  had  been  a  long  time  since  she  had  heard 
anything  resembling  a  chuckle  from  him,  and  this 
sound — although  it  was  grim  and  dry — bore  that 
resemblance. 

She  brightened  eagerly.  "Looks  like  he  was 
startin'  right  well,  don't  it,  papa?" 

' '  Startin'  ?  Lord !  He  got  me  on  the  hip !  Why, 
he  knew  what  I  wanted — that's  why  he  had  the 
inspector  up  there,  so  't  he'd  have  me  beat  before 
we  even  started  to  talk  about  it.  And  did  you  hear 
him?  'Can't  reasonably  defend  sentiment!'  And 


THE   TURMOIL 

the  way  he  says  'Us':    'Took  an  option  for  Us'! 
'Stuff  piled  up  on  Us'!" 

There  was  always  an  alloy  for  Mrs.  Sheridan. 
"I  don't  just  like  the  way  he  looks,  though,  papa." 

"Oh,  there's  got  to  be  something!  Only  one  chick 
left  at  home,  so  you  start  to  frettin'  about  it!" 

"No.  He's  changed.  There's  kind  of  a  settish 
look  to  his  face,  and — " 

"I  guess  that's  the  common  sense  comin'  out  on 
him,  then,"  said  Sheridan.  "You'll  see  symptoms 
like  that  in  a  good  many  business  men,  I  expect." 

"Well,  and  he  don't  have  as  good  color  as  he  was 
gettin'  before.  And  he'd  begun  to  fill  out  some, 
but—" 

Sheridan  gave  forth  another  dry  chuckle,  and, 
going  round  the  table  to  her,  patted  her  upon  the 
shoulder  with  his  left  hand,  his  right  being  still 
heavily  bandaged,  though  he  no  longer  wore  a  sling. 
"That's  the  way  it  is  with  you,  mamma — got  to 
take  your  frettin'  out  one  way  if  you  don't  another!" 

"No.  He  don't  look  well.  It  ain't  exactly  the 
way  he  looked  when  he  begun  to  get  sick  that  time, 
but  he  kind  o'  seems  to  be  losin',  some  way." 

"Yes,  he  may  'a'  lost  something,"  said  Sheridan. 
"I  expect  he's  lost  a  whole  lot  o'  foolishness  besides 
his  God-forsaken  notions  about  writin'  poetry  and — " 

"No,"  his  wife  persisted.  "I  mean  he  looks  right 
peakid.  And  yesterday,  when  he  was  settin'  with 
us,  he  kept  lookin'  out  the  window.  He  wasn't 
readin'." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  he  look  out  the  window?" 

"He  was  lookin'  over  there.  He  never  read  a 
word  all  afternoon,  I  don't  believe." 

318 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Look  here!"  said  Sheridan.  "Bibbs  might  V 
kept  goin'  on  over  there  the  rest  of  his  life,  moonin' 
on  and  on,  but  what  he  heard  Sibyl  say  did  one  big 
thing,  anyway.  It  woke  him  up  out  of  his  trance. 
Well,  he  had  to  go  and  bust  clean  out  with  a  bang; 
and  that  stopped  his  goin'  over  there,  and  it  stopped 
his  poetry,  but  I  reckon  he's  begun  to  get  pretty 
fair  pay  for  what  he  lost.  I  guess  a  good  many 
young  men  have  had  to  get  over  worries  like  his; 
they  got  to  lose  something  if  they're  goin'  to  keep 
ahead  o'  the  procession  nowadays — and  it  kind  o* 
looks  to  me,  mamma,  like  Bibbs  might  keep  quite 
a  considerable  long  way  ahead.  Why,  a  year  from 
now  I'll  bet  you  he  won't  know  there  ever  was  such 
a  thing  as  poetry !  And  ain't  he  funny?  He  wanted 
to  stick  to  the  shop  so's  he  could  'think'!  What  he 
meant  was,  think  about  something  useless.  Well, 
I  guess  he's  keepin*  his  mind  pretty  occupied  the 
other  way  these  days.  Yes,  sir,  it  took  a  pretty 
fair-sized  shock  to  get  him  out  of  his  trance,  but  it 
certainly  did  the  business."  He  patted  his  wife's 
shoulder  again,  and  then,  without  any  prefatory 
symptoms,  broke  into  a  boisterous  laugh. 

"Honest,  mamma,  he  works  like  a  gorilla!" 

21 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

ASID  so  Bibbs  sat  in  the  porch  of  the  temple 
with  the  money-changers.  But  no  One  came 
to  scourge  him  forth,  for  this  was  the  temple  of 
Bigness,  and  the  changing  of  money  was  holy  wor 
ship  and  true  religion.  The  priests  wore  that  "set- 
tish"  look  Bibbs 's  mother  had  seen  beginning  to 
develop  about  his  mouth  and  eyes — a  wary  look 
which  she  could  not  define,  but  it  comes  with  service 
at  the  temple;  and  it  was  the  more  marked  upon 
Bibbs  for  his  sharp  awakening  to  the  necessities  of 
that  service. 

He  did  as  little  "  useless "  thinking  as  possible, 
giving  himself  no  time  for  it.  He  worked  continu 
ously,  keeping  his  thoughts  still  on  his  work  when 
he  came  home  at  night;  and  he  talked  of  nothing 
whatever  except  his  work.  But  he  did  not  sing  at 
it.  He  was  often  in  the  streets,  and  people  were 
not  allowed  to  sing  in  the  streets.  They  might  make 
any  manner  of  hideous  uproar — they  could  shake 
buildings;  they  could  out-thunder  the  thunder, 
deafen  the  deaf,  and  kill  the  sick  with  noise;  or 
they  could  walk  the  streets  or  drive  through  them 
bawling,  squawking,  or  screeching,  as  they  chose,  if 
the  noise  was  traceably  connected  with  business; 
though  street  musicians  were  not  tolerated,  being 
considered  a  nuisance  and  an  interference.  A  man 

320 


THE   TURMOIL 

or  woman  who  went  singing  for  pleasure  through  the 
streets — like  a  crazy  Neapolitan — would  have  been 
stopped,  and  belike  locked  up;  for  Freedom  does 
not  mean  that  a  citizen  is  allowed  to  do  every  out 
rageous  thing  that  comes  into  his  head.  The  streets 
were  dangerous  enough,  in  all  conscience,  without 
any  singing!  and  the  Motor  Federation  issued  pub 
lic  warnings  declaring  that  the  pedestrian's  life  was 
in  his  own  hands,  and  giving  directions  how  to  pro 
ceed  with  the  least  peril.  However,  Bibbs  Sheri 
dan  had  no  desire  to  sing  in  the  streets,  or  anywhere. 
He  had  gone  to  his  work  with  an  energy  that,  for 
the  start,  at  least,  was  bitter,  and  there  was  no  song 
left  in  him. 

He  began  to  know  his  active  fellow-citizens.  Here 
and  there  among  them  he  found  a  leisurely,  kind 
soul,  a  relic  of  the  old  period  of  neighborliness, 
"pioneer  stock,"  usually;  and  there  were  men— 
particularly  among  the  merchants  and  manufactur 
ers— -"so  honest  they  leaned  backward";  reputations 
sometimes  attested  by  stories  of  heroic  sacrifices  to 
honor;  ^nor  were  there  lacking  some  instances  of 
generosity  even  nobler.  Here  and  there,  too,  were 
book-men,  in  their  little  leisure;  and,  among  the 
Germans,  music-men.  And  these,  with  the  others, 
worshiped  Bigness  and  the  growth,  each  man  serv 
ing  for  his  own  sake  and  for  what  he  could  get  out 
of  it,  but  all  united  in  their  faith  in  the  beneficence 
and  glory  of  their  god. 

To  almost  all  alike  that  service  stood  as  the  most 
important  thing  in  life,  except  on  occasion  of  some 
such  vital,  brief  interregnum  as  the  dangerous  ill 
ness  of  a  wife  or  child.  In  the  way  of  "relaxation" 

321 


THE   TURMOIL 

»,  ?-v** 

some  of  the  servers  took  golf;  some  took  fishing; 
some  took  "shows" — a  mixture  of  infantile  and 
negroid  humor,  stockings,  and  tin  music;  some  took 
an  occasional  debauch;  some  took  trips;  some  took 
cards;  and  some  took  nothing.  The  high  priests 
were  vigilant  to  watch  that  no  "relaxation"  should 
affect  the  service.  When  a  man  attended  to  any 
thing  outside  his  business,  eyes  were  upon  him;  his 
credit  was  in  danger — that  is,  his  life  was  in  danger. 
And  the  old  priests  were  as  ardent  as  the  young 
ones;  the  million  was  as  eager  to  be  bigger  as  the 
thousand;  seventy  was  as  busy  as  seventeen.  They 
strove  mightily  against  one  another,  and  the  old 
priests  were  the  most  wary,  the  most  plausible,  and 
the  most  dangerous.  Bibbs  learned  he  must  walk 
charily  among  these — he  must  wear  a  thousand  eyes 
and  beware  of  spiders  indeed! 

And  outside  the  temple  itself  were  the  pretenders, 
the  swarming  thieves  and  sharpers  and  fleecers,  the 
sly  rascals  and  the  open  rascals;  but  these  were  feeble 
folk,  not  dangerous  once  he  knew  them,  and  he  had 
a  good  guide  to  point  them  out  to  him.  They  were 
useful  sometimes,  he  learned,  and  many  of  them 
served  as  go-betweens  in  matters  where  business 
must  touch  politics.  He  learned  also  how  brew 
eries  and  "traction"  companies  and  banks  and 
other  institutions  fought  one  another  for  the 
political  control  of  the  city.  The  newspapers, 
he  discovered,  had  lost  their  ancient  political  in 
fluence,  especially  with  the  knowing,  who  looked 
upon  them  with  a  skeptical  humor,  believing  the 
journals  either  to  be  retained  partisans,  like  lawyers, 
or  else  striving  to  forward  the  personal  ambitions 

322 


THE   TURMOIL 

of  their  owners.  The  control  of  the  city  lay  not 
with  them,  but  was  usually  obtained  by  giving  the 
hordes  of  negroes  gin-money,  and  by  other  largesses. 
The  revenues  of  the  people  were  then  distributed 
as  fairly  as  possible  among  a  great  number  of  men 
who  had  assisted  the  winning  side.  Names  and  titles 
of  offices  went  with  many  of  the  prizes,  and  most  of 
these  title-holders  were  expected  to  present  a  busy 
appearance  at  times ;  and,  indeed,  some  among  them 
did  work  honestly  and  faithfully. 

Bibbs  had  been  very  ignorant.  All  these  simple 
things,  so  well  known  and  customary,  astonished  him 
at  first,  and  once — in  a  brief  moment  of  forgetting 
that  he  was  done  with  writing — he  thought  that  if 
he  had  known  them  and  written  of  them,  how  like 
a  satire  the  plainest  relation  of  them  must  have 
seemed!  Strangest  of  all  to  him  was  the  vehement 
and  sincere  patriotism.  On  every  side  he  heard  it — 
it  was  a  permeation;  the  newest  school-child  caught 
it,  though  just  from  Hungary  and  learning  to  stam 
mer  a  few  words  of  the  local  language.  Everywhere 
the  people  shouted  of  the  power,  the  size,  the  riches, 
and  the  growth  of  their  city.  Not  only  that,  they 
said  that  the  people  of  their  city  were  the  greatest, 
the  "finest,"  the  strongest,  the  Biggest  people  on 
earth.  They  cited  no  authorities,  and  felt  the  need 
of  none,  being  themselves  the  people  thus  celebrated. 
And  if  the  thing  was  questioned,  or  if  it  was  hinted 
that  there  might  be  one  small  virtue  in  which  they 
were  not  perfect  and  supreme,  they  wasted  no  time 
examining  themselves  to  see  if  what  the  critic  said 
was  true,  but  fell  upon  him  and  hooted  him  and 
cursed  him,  for  they  were  sensitive.  So  Bibbs,  learn- 

323 


THE   TURMOIL 

ing  their  ways  and  walking  with  them,  harkened  to 
the  voice  of  the  people  and  served  Bigness  with 
them.  For  the  voice  of  the  people  is  the  voice  of 
their  god. 

Sheridan  had  made  the  room  next  to  his  own  into 
an  office  for  Bibbs,  and  the  door  between  the  two 
rooms  usually  stood  open — the  father  had  estab 
lished  that  intimacy.  One  morning  in  February, 
when  Bibbs  was  alone,  Sheridan  came  in,  some  sheets 
of  typewritten  memoranda  in  his  hand. 

" Bibbs,"  he  said,  "I  don't  like  to  butt  in  very 
often  this  way,  and  when  I  do  I  usually  wish  I 
hadn't— but  for  Heaven's  sake  what  have  you  been 
buying  that  ole  busted  inter-traction  stock  for?'* 

Bibbs  leaned  back  from  his  desk.  "For  eleven 
hundred  and  fifty-five  dollars.  That's  all  it  cost." 

"Well,  it  ain't  worth  eleven  hunderd  and  fifty-five 
cents.  You  ought  to  know  that.  I  don't  get  your 
idea.  That  stuff's  deader  'n  Adam's  cat!" 

"It  might  be  worth  something — some  day." 

"How?" 

"It  mightn't  be  so  dead— not  if  We  went  into  it," 
said  Bibbs,  coolly. 

"Oh!"  Sheridan  considered  this  musingly;  then 
he  said,  "Who'd  you  buy  it  from?" 

"A  broker— Fansmith." 

"Well,  he  must  'a'  got  it  from  one  o'  the  crowd  o' 
poor  ninnies  that  was  soaked  with  it.  Don't  you 
know  who  owned  it?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Ain't  sayin',  though?  That  it?  What's  the 
matter?" 

324 


THE   TURMOIL 

"It  belonged  to  Mr.  Vertrees,"  said  Bibbs,  shortly, 
applying  himself  to  his  desk. 

"So!"  Sheridan  gazed  down  at  his  son's  thin 
face.  "Excuse  me,"  he  said.  "Your  business." 
And  he  went  back  to  his  own  room.  But  presently 
he  looked  in  again. 

"I  reckon  you  won5t  mind  lunchin'  alone  to-day" 
— he  was  shuffling  himself  into  his  overcoat — "be 
cause  I  just  thought  I'd  go  up  to  the  house  and  get 
this  over  with  mamma."  He  glanced  apologetically 
toward  his  right  hand  as  it  emerged  from  the  sleeve 
of  the  overcoat.  The  bandages  had  been  removed, 
finally,  that  morning,  revealing  but  three  fingers — 
the  forefinger  and  the  finger  next  to  it  had  been 
amputated.  "She's  bound  to  make  an  awful  fuss, 
and  it  better  spoil  her  lunch  than  her  dinner.  I'll 
be  back  about  two." 

But  he  calculated  the  time  of  his  arrival  at  the 
New  House  so  accurately  that  Mrs.  Sheridan's  lunch 
was  not  disturbed,  and  she  was  rising  from  the  lonely 
table  when  he  came  into  the  dining-room.  He  had 
left  his  overcoat  in  the  hall,  but  he  kept  his  hands 
in  his  trousers  pockets. 

"What's  the  matter,  papa?"  she  asked,  quickly. 
"Has  anything  gone  wrong?  You  ain't  sick?" 

"Me!"    He  laughed  loudly.     "Me  sick?" 

"You  had  lunch?" 

"Didn't  want  any  to-day.  You  can  give  me  a 
cup  o'  coffee,  though." 

She  rang,  and  told  George  to  have  coffee  made, 
and  when  he  had  withdrawn  she  said  querulously, 
"I  just  know  there's  something  wrong." 

"Nothin'  in  the  world,"  he  responded,  heartily, 
325 


THE   TURMOIL 

taking  a  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table.  "I  thought 
I'd  talk  over  a  notion  o'  mine  with  you,  that's  all. 
It's  more  women-folks'  business  than  what  it  is 
man's,  anyhow." 

"What  about?" 

"Why,  ole  Doc  Gurney  was  up  at  the  office  this 
morning  awhile — " 

"To  look  at  your  hand?    How's  he  say  it's  doin'  ?" 

"Fine!  Well,  he  went  in  and  sat  around  with 
Bibbs  awhile—" 

Mrs.  Sheridan  nodded  pessimistically.  "I  guess 
it's  time  you  had  him,  too.  I  knew  Bibbs — " 

' '  Now,  mamma,  hold  your  horses !  I  wanted  him 
to  look  Bibbs  over  before  anything's  the  matter. 
You  don't  suppose  I'm  goin'  to  take  any  chances  with 
Bibbs,  do  you?  Well,  afterwards,  I  shut  the  door, 
and  I  an'  ole  Gurney  had  a  talk.  He's  a  mighty  dis 
agreeable  man;  he  rubbed  it  in  on  me  what  he  said 
about  Bibbs  havin'  brains  if  he  ever  woke  up.  Then 
I  thought  he  must  want  to  get  something  out  o* 
me,  he  got  so  flattering — for  a  minute!  'Bibbs 
couldn't  help  havin'  business  brains,'  he  says,  'bein' 
your  son.  Don't  be  surprised,'  he  says™' don't  be 
surprised  at  his  makin'  a  success,'  he  says.  'He 
couldn't  get  over  his  heredity;  he  couldn't  help  bein' 
a  business  success — once  you  got  him  into  it.  It's 
in  his  blood.  Yes,  sir,'  he  says,  'it  doesn't  need 
much  brains,'  he  says,  'an'  only  third-rate  brains, 
at  that,'  he  says,  'but  it  does  need  a  special  kind  o' 
brains,'  he  says,  'to  be  a  millionaire.  I  mean,'  he 
says,  'when  a  man's  given  a  start.  If  nobody  gives 
him  a  start,  why,  course  he's  got  to  have  luck  and 
the  right  kind  o'  brains.  The  only  miracle  about 

326 


THE  TURMOIL 

Bibbs/  he  says,  'is  where  he  got  the  other  kind  o* 
brains — the  brains  you  made  him  quit  usin'  and 
throw  away." 

"But  what  'd  he  say  about  his  health?"  Mrs. 
Sheridan  demanded,  impatiently,  as  George  placed 
a  cup  of  coffee  before  her  husband.  Sheridan  helped 
himself  to  cream  and  sugar,  and  began  to  sip  the 
coffee. 

"I'm  comin'  to  that,"  he  returned,  placidly. 
"See  how  easy  I  manage  this  cup  with  my  left  hand, 
mamma?" 

"You  been  doin'  that  all  winter.     What  did—" 

"It's  wonderful,"  he  interrupted,  admiringly, 
"what  a  fellow  can  do  with  his  left  hand.  I  can  sign 
my  name  with  mine  now,  well's  I  ever  could  with  my 
right.  It  came  a  little  hard  at  first,  but  now,  honest, 
I  believe  I  rather  sign  with  my  left.  That's  all  I  ever 
have  to  write,  anyway — just  the  signature.  Rest's 
all  dictatin'."  He  blew  across  the  top  of  the  cup 
unctuously.  '''Good  coffee,  mamma!  Well,  about 
Bibbs.  Ole  Gurney  says  he  believes  if  Bibbs  could 
somehow  get  back  to  the  state  o'  mind  he  was  in 
about  the  machine-shop — that  is,  if  he  could  some 
way  get  to  feelin'  about  business  the  way  he  felt 
about  the  shop — not  the  poetry  and  writin'  part, 
but — "  He  paused,  supplementing  his  remarks  with 
a  motion  of  his  head  toward  the  old  house  next  door. 
*'He  says  Bibbs  is  older  and  harder  'n  what  he  was 
when  he  broke  down  that  time,  and  besides,  he  ain't 
the  kind  o'  dreamy  way  he  was  then — and  I  should 
say  he  ain't!  I'd  like  'em  to  show  me  anybody  his 
age  that's  any  wider  awake!  But  he  says  Bibbs's 
health  '11  never  need  bother  us  again  if — " 

327 


THE   TURMOIL 

Mrs.  Sheridan  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  see  any 
help  that  way.  You  know  yourself  she  wouldn't 
have  Jim." 

" Who's  talkin'  about  her  havin'  anybody?  But, 
my  Lord!  she  might  let  him  look  at  her!  She  needn't 
'a'  got  so  mad,  just  because  he  asked  her,  that  she 
won't  let  him  come  in  the  house  any  more.  He's 
a  mighty  funny  boy,  and  some  ways  I  reckon  he's 
pretty  near  as  hard  to  understand  as  the  Bible, 
but  Gurney  kind  o'  got  me  in  the  way  o'  thinkin' 
that  if  she'd  let  him  come  back  and  set  around  with 
her  an  evening  or  two  sometimes — not  reglar,  I 
don't  mean — why —  Well,  I  just  thought  I'd  see 
what  you'd  think  of  it.  There  ain't  any  way  to 
talk  about  it  to  Bibbs  himself — I  don't  suppose  he'd 
let  you,  anyhow — but  I  thought  maybe  you  could 
kind  o*  slip  over  there  some  day,  and  sort  o'  fix 
up  to  have  a  little  talk  with  her,  and  kind  o'  hint 
around  till  you  see  how  the  land  lays,  and  ask  her — " 

"Me!"  Mrs.  Sheridan  looked  both  helpless  and 
frightened.  "No."  She  shook  her  head  decidedly. 
"It  wouldn't  do  any  good." 

"You  won't  try  it?" 

4<I  won't  risk  her  turnin'  me  out  o'  the  house. 
Some  way,  that's  what  I  believe  she  did  to  Sibyl, 
from  what  Roscoe  said  once.  No,  I  can't — and, 
what's  more,  it  'd  only  make  things  worse.  If  peo 
ple  find  out  you're  runnin'  after  'em  they  think 
you're  cheap,  and  then  they  won't  do  as  much  for 
you  as  if  you  let  'em  alone.  I  don't  believe  it's 
any  use,  and  I  couldn't  do  it  if  it  was." 

He  sighed  with  resignation.  "All  right,  mamma. 
That's  all."  Then,  in  a  livelier  tone,  he  said:  "Ole 

328 


THE   TURMOIL 

Gurney  took  the  bandages  off  my  hand  this  morn 
ing.  All  healed  up.  Says  I  don't  need  'em  any 
more." 

"Why,  that's  splendid,  papa!"  she  cried,  beaming. 
"I  was  afraid—  Let's  see." 

She  came  toward  him,  but  he  rose,  still  keeping 
his^hand  in  his  pocket.  "Wait  a  minute,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "Now  it  may  give  you  just  a  little  teeny 
bit  of  a  shock,  but  the  fact  is — well,  you  remember 
that  Sunday  when  Sibyl  came  over  here  and  made 
all  that  fuss  about  nothin' — it  was  the  day  after  I 
got  tired  o'  that  statue  when  Edith's  telegram 
came—" 

"Let  me  see  your  hand!"  she  cried. 

"Now  wait!"  he  said,  laughing  and  pushing  her 
away  with  his  left  hand.  "The  truth  is,  mamma, 
that  I  kind  o'  slipped  out  on  you  that  morning, 
when  you  wasn't  lookin',  and  went  down  to  ole 
Gurney's  office— he'd  told  me  to,  you  see— and,  well, 
it  doesn't  amount  to  anything,"  And  he  held  out, 
for  her  inspection,  the  mutilated  hand.  "You  see, 
these  days  when  it's  all  dictatin',  anyhow,  nobody 
'd  mind  just  a  couple  o' — " 

He  had  to  jump  for  her — she  went  over  back 
ward.  For  the  second  time  in  her  life  Mrs.  Sheridan 
fainted. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IT  was  a  full  hour  later  when  he  left  her  lying 
upon  a  couch  in  her  own  room,  still  lamenting 
intermittently,  though  he  assured  her  with  heat 
that  the  "fuss"  she  was  making  irked  him  far  more 
than  his  physical  loss.  He  permitted  her  to  think 
that  he  meant  to  return  directly  to  his  office,  but 
when  he  came  out  to  the  open  air  he  told  the  chauf 
feur  in  attendance  to  await  him  in  front  of  Mr.  Ver- 
trees's  house,  whither  he  himself  proceeded  on  foot. 

Mr.  Vertrees  had  taken  the  sale  of  half  of  his 
worthless  stock  as  manna  in  the  wilderness:  it  came 
from  heaven  —  by  what  agency  he  did  not  partic 
ularly  question.  The  broker  informed  him  that 
"parties  were  interested  in  getting  hold  of  the  stock," 
and  that  later  there  might  be  a  possible  increase  in 
the  value  of  the  large  amount  retained  by  his  client. 
It  might  go  "quite  a  ways  up"  within  a  year  or  so, 
he  said,  and  he  advised  "sitting  tight"  with  it.  Mr. 
Vertrees  went  home  and  prayed. 

He  rose  from  his  knees  feeling  that  he  was  surely 
coming  into  his  own  again.  It  was  more  than  a 
mere  gasp  of  temporary  relief  with  him,  and  his 
wife  shared  his  optimism;  but  Mary  would  not  let 
him  buy  back  her  piano,  and  as  for  furs — spring  was 
on  the  way,  she  said.  But  they  paid  the  butcher, 
the  baker,  and  the  candlestick-maker,  and  hired  a 

330 


THE  TURMOIL 

cook  once  more.  It  was  this  servitress  who  opened 
the  door  for  Sheridan  and  presently  assured  him 
that  Miss  Vertices  would  "be  down." 

He  was  not  the  man  to  conceal  admiration  when 
he  felt  it,  and  he  flushed  and  beamed  as  Mary  made 
her  appearance,  almost  upon  the  heels  of  the  cook. 
She  had  a  look  of  apprehension  for  the  first  fraction 
of  a  second,  but  it  vanished  at  the  sight  of  him,  and 
its  place  was  taken  in  her  eyes  by  a  soft  brilliance, 
while  color  rushed  in  her  cheeks. 

"Don't  be  surprised,"  he  said.  "Truth  is,  in  a 
way  it's  sort  of  on  business  I  looked  in  here.  It  '11 
only  take  a  minute,  I  expect." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Mary.  "I  hoped  you'd  come 
because  we're  neighbors." 

He  chuckled.  "Neighbors!  Sometimes  people 
don't  see  so  much  o*  their  neighbors  as  they  used 
to.  That  is,  I  hear  so — lately." 

"You'll  stay  long  enough  to  sit  down,  won't  you?" 

"I  guess  I  could  manage  that  much."  And  they 
sat  down,  facing  each  other  and  not  far  apart. 

"Of  course,  it  couldn't  be  called  business,  exactly," 
he  said,  more  gravely.  "Not  at  all,  I  expect.  But 
there's  something  o'  yours  it  seemed  to  me  I  ought 
to  give  you,  and  I  just  thought  it  was  better  to 
bring  it  myself  and  explain  how  I  happened  to  have 
it.  It's  this — this  letter  you  wrote  my  boy."  He 
extended  the  letter  to  her  solemnly,  in  his  left 
hand,  and  she  took  it  gently  from  him.  "It  was 
in  his  mail,  after  he  was  hurt.  You  knew  he  never 
got  it,  I  expect." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  sighed.     "I'm   glad   he   didn't.     Not,"  he 


THE   TURMOIL 

added,  quickly — ''not  but  what  you  did  just  right 
to  send  it.  You  did.  You  couldn't  acted  any  other 
way  when  it  came  right  down  to  it.  There  ain't 
any  blame  comin'  to  you — you  were  above-board 
all  through." 

Mary  said,  "Thank  you,"  almost  in  a  whisper, 
and  with  her  head  bowed  low. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me  for  readin'  it.  I  had 
to  take  charge  of  all  his  mail  and  everything;  I 
didn't  know  the  handwritin',  and  I  read  it  all — 
once  I  got  started." 

4 'I'm  glad  you  did." 

"Well" — he  leaned  forward  as  if  to  rise — "I 
guess  that's  about  all.  I  just  thought  you  ought 
to  have  it." 

"Thank  you  for  bringing  it." 

He  looked  at  her  hopefully,  as  if  he  thought  and 
wished  that  she  might  have  something  more  to  say. 
But  she  seemed  not  to  be  aware  of  this  glance,  and 
sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  sorrowfully  upon  the  floor. 

"Well,  I  expect  I  better  be  gettin'  back  to  the 
office,"  he  said,  rising  desperately.  "I  told — I  told 
my  partner  I'd  be  back  at  two  o'clock,  and  I  guess 
he'll  think  I'm  a  poor  business  man  if  he  catches  me 
behind  time.  I  got  to  walk  the  chalk  a  mighty 
straight  line  these  days — with  that  fellow  keepin' 
tabs  on  me!" 

Mary  rose  with  him.  "I've  always  heard  yow 
were  the  hard  driver." 

He  guffawed  derisively.  "Me?  I'm  nothin'  to 
that  partner  o'  mine.  You  couldn't  guess  to  save 
your  life  how  he  keeps  after  me  to  hold  up  my  end 
o'  the  job.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  he'd  give  me 

332 


THE   TURMOIL 

the  grand  bounce  jiome  day,  and  run  the  whole 
circus  by  himself.  You  know  how  he  is— once  he 
goes  at  a  thing!" 

"No,"  she  smiled.  ''I  didn't  know  you  had  a 
partner.  I'd  always  heard — " 

He  laughed,  looking  away  from  her.  "It's  just 
my  way  o'  speakin'  o'  that  boy  o'  mine,  Bibbs." 

He  stood  then,  expectant,  staring  out  into  the 
hall  with  an  air  of  careless  geniality.  He  felt  that 
she  certainly  must  at  least  say,  "How  is  Bibbs?" 
but  she  said  nothing  at  all,  though  he  waited  until 
the  silence  became  embarrassing. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  better  be  gettin'  down  there," 
he^said,  at  last.  "He  might  worry." 

"Good-by — and  thank  you,"  said  Mary. 

"For  what?" 

"For  the  letter." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  blankly.  "You're  welcome. 
Good-by." 

Mary  put  out  her  hand.     "Good-by." 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  my  left  hand,"  he  said. 
"I  had  a  little  accident  to  the  other  one." 

She  gave  a  pitying  cry  as  she  saw.  "Oh,  poor  Mr. 
Sheridan!" 

"Nothin'  at  all!  Dictate  everything  nowadays, 
anyhow."  He  laughed  jovially.  "Did  anybody  tell 
you  how  it  happened?" 

"I  heard  you  hurt  your  hand,  but  no — not  just 
how." 

"It  was  this  way,"  he  began,  and  both,  as  if  un 
consciously,  sat  down  again.  "You  may  not  know 
it,  but  I  used  to  worry  a  good  deal  about  the  young 
est  o'  my  boys — the  one  that  used  to  come  to  see 

333 


THE   TURMOIL 

you  sometimes,  after  Jim — that  is,  I  mean  Bibbs. 
He's  the  one  I  spoke  of  as  my  partner;  and  the  truth 
is  that's  what  it's  just  about  goin'  to  amount  to, 
one  o'  these  days — if  his  health  holds  out.  Well, 
you  remember,  I  expect,  I  had  him  on  a  machine 
over  at  a  plant  o'  mine;  and  sometimes  I'd  kind  o' 
sneak  in  there  and  see  how  he  was  gettin'  along. 
Take  a  doctor  with  me  sometimes,  because  Bibbs 
never  was  so  robust,  you  might  say.  Ole  Doc  Gur- 
ney — I  guess  maybe  you  know  him?  Tall,  thin 
man;  acts  sleepy — " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  one  day  I  an'  ole  Doc  Gurney,  we  were  in 
there,  and  I  undertook  to  show  Bibbs  how  to  run 
his  machine.  He  told  me  to  look  out,  but  I  wouldn't 
listen,  and  I  didn't  look  out — and  that's  how  I  got 
my  hand  hurt,  tryin'  to  show  Bibbs  how  to  do  some 
thing  he  knew  how  to  do  and  I  didn't.  Made  me 
so  mad  I  just  wouldn't  even  admit  to  myself  it  was 
hurt — and  so,  by  and  by,  ole  Doc  Gurney  had  to 
take  kind  o'  radical  measures  with  me.  He's  a  right 
good  doctor,  too.  Don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Vertrees  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Yes,  he  is  so!"  Sheridan  now  had  the  air  of  a 
rambling  talker  and  gossip  with  all  day  on  his  hands. 
"Take  him  on  Bibbs's  case.  I  was  talkin'  about 
Bibbs's  case  with  him  this  morning.  Well,  you'd 
laugh  to  hear  the  way  ole  Gurney  talks  about  that! 
'Course  he  is  just  as  much  a  friend  as  he  is  doctor — 
and  he  takes  as  much  interest  in  Bibbs  as  if  he  was 
in  the  family.  He  says  Bibbs  isn't  anyways  bad  off 
yet;  and  he  thinks  he  could  stand  the  pace  and  get 
fat  on  it  if — well,  this  is  what  'd  made  yon  laugh  if 

334 


THE   TURMOIL 

you'd  been  there,  Miss  Vertrees — honest  it  would!" 
He  paused  to  chuckle,  and  stole  a  glance  at  her. 
She  was  gazing  straight  before  her  at  the  wall;  her 
lips  were  parted,  and — visibly — she  was  breathing 
heavily  and  quickly.  He  feared  that  she  was  growing 
furiously  angry;  but  he  had  led  to  what  he  wanted 
to  say,  and  he  went  on,  determined  now  to  say  it 
all.  He  leaned  forward  and  altered  his  voice  to 
one  of  confidential  friendliness,  though  in  it  he  still 
maintained  a  tone  which  indicated  that  ole  Doc 
Gurney's  opinion  was  only  a  joke  he  shared  with 
her.  "Yes,  sir,  you  certainly  would  'a'  laughed! 
Why,  that  ole  man  thinks  you  got  something  to  do 
with  it.  You'll  have  to  blame  it  on  him,  young 
lady,  if  it  makes  you  feel  like  startin'  out  to  whip 
somebody!  He's  actually  got  this  theory:  he  says 
Bibbs  got  to  gettin'  better  while  he  worked  over 
there  at  the  shop  because  you  kept  him  cheered  up 
and  feelin'  good.  And  he  says  if  you  could  manage 
to  just  stand  him  hangin'  around  a  little — maybe 
not  much,  but  just  sometimes — again,  he  believed 
it  'd  do  Bibbs  a  mighty  lot  o'  good.  'Course,  that's 
only  what  the  doctor  said.  Me,  I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  that;  but  I  can  say  this  much — I  never 
saw  any  such  a  mental  improvement  in  anybody  in 
my  life  as  I  have  lately  in  Bibbs.  I  expect  you'd 
find  him  a  good  deal  more  entertaining  than  what 
he  used  to  be — and  I  know  it's  a  kind  of  embarrass 
ing  thing  to  suggest  after  the  way  he  piled  in  over 
here  that  day  to  ask  you  to  stand  up  before  the 
preacher  with  him,  but  accordin'  to  ole  Doc  Gurney, 
he's  got  you  on  his  brain  so  bad — " 

Mary  jumped.    "Mr.  Sheridan!"  she  exclaimed. 

22  335 


THE   TURMOIL 

He  sighed  profoundly.  " There!  I  noticed  you 
were  gettin'  mad.  I  didn't — " 

"No,  no,  no!"  she  cried.  "But  I  don't  under 
stand —  and  I  think  you  don't.  What  is  it  you 
want  me  to  do?" 

He  sighed  again,  but  this  time  with  relief.  "Well, 
well!"  he  said.  "You're  right.  It  '11  be  easier  to 
talk  plain.  I  ought  to  known  I  could  with  you,  all 
the  time.  I  just  hoped  you'd  let  that  boy  come  and 
see  you  sometimes,  once  more.  Could  you?" 

"You  don't  understand."  She  clasped  her  hands 
together  in  a  sorrowful  gesture.  "Yes,  we  must  talk 
plain.  Bibbs  heard  that  I'd  tried  to  make  your 
oldest  son  care  for  me  because  I  was  poor,  and  so 
Bibbs  came  and  asked  me  to  marry  him — because 
he  was  sorry  for  me.  And  I  can't  see  him  any 
more,"  she  cried  in  distress.  "I  can't!" 

Sheridan  cleared  his  throat  uncomfortably.  "You 
mean  because  he  thought  that  about  you?" 

"No,  no!    What  he  thought  was  true!" 

"Well — you  mean  he  was  so  much  in — you  mean 
he  thought  so  much  of  you — "  The  words  were  in 
conceivably  awkward  upon  Sheridan's  tongue;  he 
seemed  to  be  in  doubt  even  about  pronouncing  them, 
but  after  a  ghastly  pause  he  bravely  repeated  them. 
"You  mean  he  thought  so  much  of  you  that  you 
just  couldn't  stand  him  around?" 

"No!  He  was  sorry  for  me.  He  cared  for  me; 
he  was  fond  of  me;  and  he'd  respected  me — too 
much!  In  the  finest  way  he  loved  me,  if  you  like, 
and  he'd  have  done  anything  on  earth  for  me,  as 
I  would  for  him,  and  as  he  knew  I  would.  It  was 
beautiful,  Mr.  Sheridan,"  she  said.  "But  the  cheap, 

336 


THE    TURMOIL 

bad  things  one  has  done  seem  always  to  come  back 

they  wait,  and  pull  you  down  when  you're  happiest 
Bibbs  found  me  out,  you  see;  and  he  wasn't  'in 
love'  with  me  at  all." 

"He  wasn't?  Well,  it  seems  to  me  he  gave  up 
everything  he  wanted  to  do— it  was  fool  stuff,  but 
he  certainly  wanted  it  mighty  bad— he  just  threw  it 
away  and  walked  right  up  and  took  the  job  he  swore 
he  never  would— just  for  you.  And  it  looks  to  me 
as  if  a  man  that  'd  do  that  must  think  quite  a  heap  o' 
the  girl  he  does  it  for  I  You  vsay  it  was  only  because 
he  was  sorry,  but  let  me  tell  you  there's  only  one 
girl  he  could  feel  that  sorry  for!  Yes,  sir!" 

"No,  no,"  she  said.     " Bibbs  isn't  like  other  men 
—he  would  do  anything  for  anybody." 

Sheridan  grinned.     "Perhaps  not  so  much  as  you 
think,  nowadays,"  he  said.     "For  instance,  I  got 
kind  of  a  suspicion  he  doesn't  believe  in  'sentiment 
in  business.'     But  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 
What  he  wanted  was,  just  plain  and  simple,  for  you 
to  marry  him.     Well,  I  was  afraid  his  thinkin'  so 
much^/  you  had  kind  o'  sickened  you  of  him— the 
way  it  does  sometimes.     But  from  the  way  you 
talk,   I   understand   that   ain't   the   trouble."    He 
coughed,  and  his  voice  trembled  a  little.     "Now 
here,  Miss  Vertrees,  I  don't  have  to  tell  you— be 
cause  you  see  things  easy— I  know  I  got  no  business 
comin'  to  you  like  this,  but  I  had  to  make  Bibbs  go 
my  way  instead  of  his  own— I  had  to  do  it  for  the 
sake  o'  my  business  and  on  his  own  account,  too— 
and  I  expect  you  got  some  idea  how  it  hurt  him  to 
give  up.     Well,  he's  made  good.     He  didn't  come 
in  \aH -hearted  or  mean;  he  came  in—all  the  way: 

337 


THE   TURMOIL 

But  there  isn't  anything  in  it  to  him;  you  can  see 
he's  just  shut  his  teeth  on  it  and  goin'  ahead  with 
dust  in  his  mouth.  You  see,  one  way  of  lookin'  at 
it,  he's  got  nothin'  to  work  for.  And  it  seems  to 
me  like  it  cost  him  your  friendship,  and  I  believe — 
honest — that's  what  hurt  him  the  worst.  Now  you 
said  we'd  talk  plain.  Why  can't  you  let  him  come 
back?" 

She  covered  her  face  desperately  with  her  hands. 
"I  can't!" 

He  rose,  defeated,  and  looking  it. 

"Well,  I  mustn't  press  you,"  he  said,  gently. 

At  that  she  cried  out,  and  dropped  her  hands  and 
let  him  see  her  face.  "Ah!  He  was  only  sorry  for 
me!" 

He  gazed  at  her  intently.  Mary  was  proud,  but 
she  had  a  fatal  honesty,  and  it  confessed  the  truth 
of  her  now;  she  was  helpless.  It  was  so  clear  that 
even  Sheridan,  marveling  and  amazed,  was  able  to 
see  it.  Then  a  change  came  over  him;  gloom  fell 
from  him,  and  he  grew  radiant. 

"Don't!    Don't!"  she  cried.     "You  mustn't—" 

"I  won't  tell  him,"  said  Sheridan,  from  the  door 
way.  "I  won't  tell  anybody  anything!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THERE  was  a  heavy  town -fog  that  afternoon, 
a  smoke-mist,  densest  in  the  sanctuary  of  the 
temple.  The  people  went  about  in  it,  busy  and 
dirty,  thickening  their  outside  and  inside  linings  of 
coal-tar,  asphalt,  sulphurous  acid,  oil  of  vitriol,  and 
the  other  familiar  things  the  men  liked  to  breathe 
and  to  have  upon  their  skins  and  garments  and  upon 
their  wives  and  babies  and  sweethearts.  The  growth 
of  the  city  was  visible  in  the  smoke  and  the  noise 
and  the  rush.  There  was  more  smoke  than  there 
had  been  this  day  of  February  a  year  earlier;  there 
was  more  noise;  and  the  crowds  were  thicker — yet 
quicker  in  spite  of  that.  The  traffic  policeman  had 
a  hard  time,  for  the  people  were  independent — they 
retained  some  habits  of  the  old  market-town  period, 
and  would  cross  the  street  anywhere  and  anyhow, 
which  not  only  got  them  killed  more  frequently  than 
if  they  clung  to  the  legal  crossings,  but  kept  the 
motormen,  the  chauffeurs,  and  the  truck-drivers  in 
a  stew  of  profane  nervousness.  So  the  traffic  police 
men  led  harried  lives;  they  themselves  were  killed, 
of  course,  with  a  certain  periodicity,  but  their  main 
trouble  was  that  they  could  not  make  the  citizens 
realize  that  it  was  actually  and  mortally  perilous 
to  go  about  their  city.  It  was  strange,  for  there 
were  probably  no  citizens  of  any  length  of  residence 

339 


THE   TURMOIL 

who  had  not  personally  known  either  some  one  who 
had  been  killed  or  injured  in  an  accident,  or  some 
one  who  had  accidentally  killed  or  injured  others. 
And  yet,  perhaps  it  was  not  strange,  seeing  the  sharp 
preoccupation  of  the  faces— the  people  had  some 
thing  on  their  minds;  they  could  not  stop  to  bother 
about  dirt  and  danger. 

Mary  Vertrees  was  not  often  down-town;    she 
had  never  seen  an  accident  until  this  afternoon. 
She  had  come  upon  errands  for  her  mother  con 
nected  with  a  timorous  refurbishment;  and  as  she  did 
these,  in  and  out  of  the  department  stores,  she  had 
an  insistent  consciousness  of  the  Sheridan  Building. 
From  the  street,  anywhere,  it  was  almost  always 
in  sight,  like  some  monstrous  geometrical  shadow, 
murk-colored  and  rising  limitlessly  into  the  swim 
ming  heights  of  the  smoke-mist.     It  was  gaunt  and 
grimy  and  repellent;  it  had  nothing  but  strength  and 
sjze — but  in  that  consciousness  of  Mary's  the  great 
structure  may  have  partaken  of  beauty.     Sheridan 
had  made   some   of   the  things  he  said   emphatic 
enough  to  remain  with  her.     She  went  over  and 
over  them — and  they  began  to  seem  true :  ' '  Only  one 
girl  he  could  feel  that  sorry  for !"     "  Gurney  says  he's 
got  you  on  his  brain  so  bad—       The  man's  clumsy 
talk  began  to  sing  in  her  heart.     The  song  was  be 
gun  there  when  she  saw  the  accident. 
^  She  was  directly  opposite  the  Sheridan  Building 
then,  waiting  for  the  traffic  to  thin  before  she  crossed, 
though  other  people  were  risking  the  passage,  dart 
ing  and  halting  and  dodging  parlously.     Two  men 
came  from  the  crowd  behind  her,  talking  earnestly, 
and  started  across.     Both  wore  black;  one  was  tall 


THE   TURMOIL 

and  broad  and  thick,  and  the  other  was  taller,  but 
noticeably  slender.  And  Mary  caught  her  breath, 
for  they  were  Bibbs  and  his  father.  They  did  not 
see  her,  and  she  caught  a  phrase  in  Bibbs's  mellow 
voice,  which  had  taken  a  crisper  ring:  "Sixty-eight 
thousand  dollars?  Not  sixty-eight  thousand  but 
tons!"  It  startled  her  queerly,  and  as  there  was  a 
glimpse  of  his  profile  she  saw  for  the  first  time  a 
resemblance  to  his  father. 

She  watched  them.  In  the  middle  of  the  street 
Bibbs  had  to  step  ahead  of  his  father,  and  the  two 
were  separated.  But  the  reckless  passing  of  a  truck, 
beyond  the  second  line  of  rails,  frightened  a  group 
of  country  women  who  were  in  course  of  passage; 
they  were  just  in  front  of  Bibbs,  and  shoved  back 
ward  upon  him  violently.  To  extricate  himself  from 
them  he  stepped  back,  directly  in  front  of  a  mov 
ing  trolley-car — no  place  for  absent-mindedness,  but 
Bibbs  was  still  absorbed  in  thoughts  concerned  with 
what  he  had  been  saying  to  his  father.  There  were 
shrieks  and  yells;  Bibbs  looked  the  wrong  way — 
and  then  Mary  saw  the  heavy  figure  of  Sheridan 
plunge  straight  forward  in  front  of  the  car.  With 
absolute  disregard  of  his  own  life,  he  hurled  himself 
at  Bibbs  like  a  football-player  shunting  off  an  op 
ponent,  and  to  Mary  it  seemed  that  they  both  went 
down  together.  But  that  was  all  she  could  see — 
automobiles,  trucks,  and  wagons  closed  in  between. 
She  made  out  that  the  trolley-car  stopped  jerkily, 
and  she  saw  a  policeman  breaking  his  way  through 
the  instantly  condensing  crowd,  while  the  traffic 
came  to  a  standstill,  and  people  stood  up  in  auto 
mobiles  or  climbed  upon  the  hubs  and  tires  of 

34i 


THE   TURMOIL 

wheels,  not  to  miss  a  chance  of  seeing  anything 
horrible. 

Mary  tried  to  get  through;  it  was  impossible. 
Other  policemen  came  to  help  the  first,  and  in  a 
minute  or  two  the  traffic  was  in  motion  again.  The 
crowd  became  pliant,  dispersing  —  there  was  no 
figure  upon  the  ground,  and  no  ambulance  came. 
But  one  of  the  policemen  was  detained  by  the  cling 
ing  and  beseeching  of  a  gloved  hand. 

"What  is  the  matter,  lady?" 

"Where  are  they?"  Mary  cried. 

"Who?  Ole  man  Sheridan?  I  reckon  he  wasn't 
much  hurt!" 

"His  son— " 

"Was  that  who  the  other  one  was?  I  seen  him 
knock  him — oh,  he's  not  bad  off,  I  guess,  lady.  The 
ole  man  got  him  out  of  the  way  all  right.  The  fender 
shoved  the  ole  man  around  some,  but  I  reckon  he 
only  got  shook  up.  They  both  went  on  in  the 
Sheridan  Building  without  any  help.  Excuse  me, 
lady." 

Sheridan  and  Bibbs,  in  fact,  were  at  that  moment 
in  the  elevator,  ascending.  "Whisk-broom  up  in 
the  office,"  Sheridan  was  saying.  "You  got  to  look 
out  on  these  corners  nowadays,  I  tell  you.  I  don't 
know  I  got  any  call  to  blow,  though — because  I  tried 
to  cross  after  you  did.  That's  how  I  happened  to 
run  into  you.  Well,  you  want  remember  to  look  out 
after  this.  We  were  talkin'  about  Murtrie's  askin' 
sixty-eight  thousand  flat  for  that  ninety-nine-year 
lease.  It's  his  lookout  if  he'd  rather  take  it  that 
way,  and  I  don't  know  but — " 

"No,"  said  Bibbs,  emphatically,  as  the  elevator 

342 


THE   TURMOIL 

stopped;  "he  won't  get  it.  Not  from  Us,  he  won't, 
and  I'll  show  you  why.  I  can  convince  you  in  five 
minutes."  He  followed  his  father  into  the  office 
anteroom — and  convinced  him.  Then,  having  been 
diligently  brushed  by  a  youth  of  color,  Bibbs  went 
into  his  own  room  and  closed  the  door. 

He  was  more  shaken  than  he  had  allowed  his 
father  to  perceive,  and  his  side  was  sore  where  Sheri 
dan  had  struck  him.  He  desired  to  be  alone;  he 
wanted  to  rub  himself  and,  for  once,  to  do  some  use 
less  thinking  again.  He  knew  that  his  father  had 
not  "happened"  to  run  into  him;  he  knew  that 
Sheridan  had  instantly — and  instinctively — proved 
that  he  held  his  own  life  of  no  account  whatever  com 
pared  to  that  of  his  son  and  heir.  Bibbs  had  been 
unable  to  speak  of  that,  or  to  seem  to  know  it;  for 
Sheridan,  just  as  instinctively,  had  swept  the  matter 
aside — as  of  no  importance,  since  all  was  well — 
reverting  immediately  to  business. 

Bibbs  began  to  think  intently  of  his  father.  He 
perceived,  as  he  had  never  perceived  before,  the 
shadowing  of  something  enormous  and  indomitable 
— and  lawless;  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  will  of 
nature's  very  self;  laughing  at  the  lightning  and  at 
wounds  and  mutilation;  conquering,  irresistible — 
and  blindly  noble.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Bibbs  began  to  understand  the  meaning  of  being 
truly  this  man's  son. 

He  would  be  the  more  truly  his  son  henceforth, 
though,  as  Sheridan  said,  Bibbs  had  not  come  down 
town  with  him  meanly  or  half-heartedly.  He  had 
given  his  word  because  he  had  wanted  the  money, 
simply,  for  Mary  Vertrees  in  her  need.  And  he  shiv- 

343 


THE   TURMOIL 

ered  with  horror  of  himself,  thinking  how  he  had 
gone  to  her  to  offer  it,  asking  her  to  marry  him — 
with  his  head  on  his  breast  in  shameful  fear  that  she 
would  accept  him!  He  had  not  known  her;  the 
knowing  had  lost  her  to  him,  and  this  had  been  his 
real  awakening;  for  he  knew  now  how  deep  had 
been  that  slumber  wherein  he  dreamily  celebrated 
the  superiority  of  ' 'friendship''!  The  sleep-walker 
had  wakened  to  bitter  knowledge  of  love  and  life, 
finding  himself  a  failure  in  both.  He  had  made  a 
burnt  offering  of  his  dreams,  and  the  sacrifice  had 
been  an  unforgivable  hurt  to  Mary.  All  that  was 
left  for  him  was  the  work  he  had  not  chosen,  but  at 
least  he  would  not  fail  in  that,  though  it  was  indeed 
no  more  than  "dust  in  his  mouth."  If  there  had 
been  anything  "to  work  for — " 

He  went  to  the  window,  raised  it,  and  let  in  the 
uproar  of  the  streets  below.  He  looked  down  at 
the  blurred,  hurrying  swarms — and  he  looked  across, 
over  the  roofs  with  their  panting  jets  of  vapor,  into 
the  vast,  foggy  heart  of  the  smoke.  Dizzy  traceries 
of  steel  were  rising  dimly  against  it,  chattering  with 
steel  on  steel,  and  screeching  in  steam,  while  tiny 
figures  of  men  walked  on  threads  in  the  dull  sky. 
Buildings  would  overtop  the  Sheridan.  Bigness  was 
being  served. 

But  what  for?  The  old  question  came  to  Bibbs 
with  a  new  despair.  Here,  where  his  eye  fell,  had 
once  been  green  fields  and  running  brooks,  and  how 
had  the  kind  earth  been  despoiled  and  disfigured! 
The  pioneers  had  begun  the  work,  but  in  their  old 
age  their  orators  had  said  for  them  that  they  had 
toiled  and  risked  and  sacrificed  that  their  posterity 

344 


THE   TURMOIL 

might  live  in  peace  and  wisdom,  enjoying  the  fruits 
of  the  earth.  Well,  their  posterity  was  here — and 
there  was  only  turmoil.  Where  was  the  promised 
land?  It  had  been  promised  by  the  soldiers  of  all 
the  wars;  it  had  been  promised  to  this  generation 
by  the  pioneers;  but  here  was  the  very  posterity 
to  whom  it  had  been  promised,  toiling  and  risking 
and  sacrificing  in  turn — for  what? 

The  harsh  roar  of  the  city  came  in  through  the 
open  window,  continuously  beating  upon  Bibbs's  ear 
until  he  began  to  distinguish  a  pulsation  in  it— 
a  broken  and  irregular  cadence.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  it  was  like  a  titanic  voice,  discordant,  hoarse, 
rustily  metallic — the  voice  of  the  god,  Bigness.  And 
the  voice  summoned  Bibbs  as  it  summoned  all  its 
servants. 

1 '  Come  and  work  I"  it  seemed  to  call.  ' '  Come  and 
work  for  Me,  all  men!  By  your  youth  and  your 
hope  I  summon  you!  By  your  age  and  your  de 
spair  I  summon  you  to  work  for  Me  yet  a  little,  with 
what  strength  you  have.  By  your  love  of  home  I 
summon  you!  By  your  love  of  woman  I  summon 
you !  By  your  hope  of  children  I  summon  you ! 

"You  shall  be  blind  slaves  of  Mine,  blind  to  every 
thing  but  Me,  your  Master  and  Driver!  For  your 
reward  you  shall  gaze  only  upon  my  ugliness.  You 
shall  give  your  toil  and  your  lives,  you  shall  go  mad 
for  love  and  worship  of  my  ugliness!  You  shall 
perish  still  worshiping  Me,  and  your  children  shall 
perish  knowing  no  other  god!" 

And  then,  as  Bibbs  closed  the  window  down  tight, 
he  heard  his  father's  voice  booming  in  the  next  room; 
he  could  not  distinguish  the  words,  but  the  tone  was 

345 


THE   TURMOIL 

exultant — and  there  came  the  thump!  thump!  of  the 
maimed  hand.  Bibbs  guessed  that  Sheridan  was  brag 
ging  of  the  city  and  of  Bigness  to  some  visitor  from 
out-of-town. 

And  he  thought  how  truly  Sheridan  was  the  high 
priest  of  Bigness.  But  with  the  old,  old  thought 
again,  "What  for?"  Bibbs  caught  a  glimmer  of  far, 
faint  light.  He  saw  that  Sheridan  had  all  his  life 
struggled  and  conquered,  and  must  all  his  life  go  on 
struggling  and  inevitably  conquering,  as  part  of  a 
vast  impulse  not  his  own.  Sheridan  served  blindly — 
but  was  the  impulse  blind?  Bibbs  asked  himself  if 
it  was  not  he  who  had  been  in  the  greater  hurry, 
after  all.  The  kiln  must  be  fired  before  the  vase  is 
glazed,  and  the  Acropolis  was  not  crowned  with 
marble  in  a  day. 

Then  the  voice  came  to  him  again,  but  there  was 
a  strain  in  it  as  of  some  huge  music  struggling  to  be 
born  of  the  turmoil.  "Ugly  I  am,"  it  seemed  to 
say  to  him,  "but  never  forget  that  I  am  a  god!" 
And  the  voice  grew  in  sonorousness  and  in  dignity. 
"The  highest  should  serve,  but  so  long  as  you  wor 
ship  me  for  my  own  sake  I  will  not  serve  you.  It  is 
man  who  makes  me  ugly,  by  his  worship  of  me.  If 
man  would  let  me  serve  him,  I  should  be  beautiful!" 

Looking  once  more  from  the  window,  Bibbs  sculp 
tured  for  himself — in  the  vague  contortions  of  the 
smoke  and  fog  above  the  roofs — a  gigantic  figure 
with  feet  pedestaled  upon  the  great  buildings  and 
shoulders  disappearing  in  the  clouds,  a  colossus  of 
steel  and  wholly  blackened  with  soot.  But  Bibbs 
carried  his  fancy  further — for  there  was  still  a  little 
poet  lingering  in  the  back  of  his  head  —  and  he 

346 


THE'TURMOIL 

thought  that  up  over  the  clouds,  unseen  from  below, 
the  giant  labored  with  his  hands  in  the  clean  sun 
shine;  and  Bibbs  had  a  glimpse  of  what  he  made 
there — perhaps  for  a  fellowship  of  the  children  of 
the  children  that  were  children  now — a  noble  and 
joyous  city,  unbelievably  white — " 

It  was  the  telephone  that  called  him  from  his 
vision.  It  rang  fiercely. 

He  lifted  the  thing  from  his  desk  and  answered — 
and  as  the  small  voice  inside  it  spoke  he  dropped 
the  receiver  with  a  crash.  He  trembled  violently  as 
he  picked  it  up,  but  he  told  himself  he  was  wrong — 
he  had  been  mistaken — yet  it  was  a  startlingly  beau 
tiful  voice;  startlingly  kind,  too,  and  ineffably  like 
the  one  he  hungered  most  to  hear. 

"Who?"  he  said,  his  own  voice  shaking — like  his 
hand. 

"Mary." 

He  responded  with  two  hushed  and  incredulous 
words:  "Is  it?" 

There  was  a  little  thrill  of  pathetic  half-laughter 
in  the  instrument.  "Bibbs — I  wanted  to — just  to 
see  if  you — " 

"Yes— Mary?" 

"I  was  looking  when  you  were  so  nearly  run  over. 
I  saw  it,  Bibbs.  They  said  you  hadn't  been  hurt, 
they  thought,  but  I  wanted  to  know  for  myself." 

"No,  no,  I  wasn't  hurt  at  all — Mary.  It  was 
father  who  came  nearer  it.  He  saved  me." 

"Yes,  I  saw;  but  you  had  fallen.  I  couldn't  get 
through  the  crowd  until  you  had  gone.  And  I 
wanted  to  know." 

347 


THE   TURMOIL 

"Mary — would  you — have  minded?"  he  said. 

There  was  a  long  interval  before  she  answered. 

"Yes." 

"Then  why—" 

"Yes,  Bibbs?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  he  cried.  "It's  so 
wonderful  to  hear  your  voice  again — I'm  shaking, 
Mary — I — I  don't  know — I  don't  know  anything 
except  that  I  am  talking  to  you!  It  is  you— 
Mary?" 

"Yes,  Bibbs!" 

"Mary — I've  seen  you  from  my  window  at  home 
— only  five  times  since  I — since  then.  You  looked — 
oh,  how  can  I  tell  you?  It  was  like  a  man  chained 
in  a  cave  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  sky,  Mary. 
Mary,  won't  you — let  me  see  you  again — near?  I 
think  I  could  make  you  really  forgive  me — you'd 
have  to—" 

"I  did— then." 

"No — not  really — or  you  wouldn't  have  said  you 
couldn't  see  me  any  more." 

"That  wasn't  the  reason."  The  voice  was  very 
low. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  even  more  tremulously  than  be 
fore,  "I  can't — you  couldn't  mean  it  was  because — 
you  can't  mean  it  was  because  you — care?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Mary?"  he  called,  huskily.  "If  you  mean  that — 
you'd  let  me  see  you — wouldn't  you?" 

And  now  the  voice  was  so  low  he  could  not  be 
sure  it  spoke  at  all,  but  if  it  did,  the  words  were, 
"Yes,  Bibbs— dear." 

But  the  voice  was  not  in  the  instrument — it  was 


THE   TURMOIL 

so  gentle  and  so  light,  so  almost  nothing,  it  seemed 
to  be  made  of  air— and  it  came  from  the  air. 

Slowly  and  incredulously  he  turned— and  glory 
fell  upon  his  shining  eyes.  The  door  of  his  father's 
room  had  opened. 

Mary  stood  upon  the  threshold. 


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